


Carry My Fears as the Heavens Set Fire

by furtivus



Series: What's in a Name [1]
Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, AU where Kratos can't stop Baldur from taking Atreus to Asgard, Angst, Atreus finds out about his mum a little differently this time, Baldur is a Dick, Dark!Atreus, Flashbacks, Gen, Heavy Angst, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Kratos SUFFERS, Kratos is struggling, Manipulation, Sindri suffers, So much angst, Suffering, There is a character death, Warnings May Change, and it kinda fucks him up, at least that's the plan, but that's his BOY, he's just one man, i don't know you tell me, is there a happy ending?, it's probably gonna be a mess the first time around lmao rip, seriously we get to see Atreus be pretty dark, so I don't know if I should tag it as a major character death or not, so much suffering, sorry Sindri stans, srsly I'm writing this as I go, sure he's a god, you can probably guess who, Ásgarðr | Asgard (realm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-05-31 18:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15125105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furtivus/pseuds/furtivus
Summary: Kratos doesn't reach the Travel Room doors in time.Now his son is lost to him, swept away by Baldur and held captive in the grasp of the Æsir. Only the gods are a lot more hospitable than Atreus imagined - and certainly nowhere near as bad as his father ever made them out to be. This is really what it's like to be a god, isn't it?While Kratos is doing everything in his power to bring his son home, Atreus is relishing in everything that was denied to him for so long. And deep inside, a seed of resentment begins to bloom.Maybe being a god isn't so bad after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trying out something I haven't seen yet in the fandom! Hopefully I can keep up to date on a longer work.  
> I'm currently on holidays so I'll have plenty of time to write, meaning you shouldn't have to wait very long for new content.  
> Hopefully you guys enjoy this (I'm kind of completely making it up as I go along so please bear with me)  
> If you like my content, please consider supporting me by buying me a coffee here: ko-fi.com/vesaniart

Kratos doesn’t reach the Travel Room doors in time.

He hits the ground hard, the shield on his arm doing little to break his fall. The force of hitting the ground at such a speed jars him, and for a moment he cannot move thanks to the sheer levels of _pain_ radiating from all of his injuries. Old and new injuries alike burn, and his head feels like it will split open any minute. Electricity still crackles behind his eyes and in his brain.

It takes only a few seconds for Kratos to reorient himself and push away the pain, but it feels like far too long. He’s wasting time – time he doesn’t have because his son, his own flesh and blood, is inside that temple with a _monster_.

Kratos forces himself to his feet, forces the pain to the back of his mind, and charges into the temple. The moment he throws the doors open he is assaulted by a flurry of questions from Brok. They all sound like white noise, and he can’t focus on anything the dwarf is saying, because that’s his _son_ inside that room. Kratos runs past Brok and slams into the Travel Room doors.

They don’t open.

Never before have the doors not opened for him. Kratos stumbles backwards, partly from the shock and partly from the force he put into throwing himself against the door. He sees light spilling out from underneath, watches as it changes colour to indicate someone has activated the Bifröst. The temple begins to rotate.

Kratos hurls himself against the doors again. “Atreus!” he roars, slamming his entire weight into the doors. “ _ATREUS!_ ”

Behind him, Brok puts two and two together. The dwarf takes a single, stunned step backwards, before turning to run out onto the bridge. Between blows against the doors, Kratos hears the dwarf curse.

Flames burst into life on Kratos’ body as he hurls himself forwards in another futile attack on the doors. He tries to pry them open, but to no avail – once the shift to another realm has begun, he realises, there is no way to enter the room. No way to stop it.

Body still blazing from his Spartan Rage, Kratos turns around and storms over the light bridge. He marches out of the temple to stand beside Brok, who is staring open-mouthed at the gateway the bridge has rotated to face.

“Which gateway is that?” Kratos demands, pointing his finger at the blazing braziers.

Brok stammers out something unintelligible before clamping his jaw shut and lifting his head. “Kratos, I’m sorry.”

Immediately Kratos knows something is wrong. The dwarf never calls him by his name. The flames still flickering on his arms die away as his rage is replaced with fear. “What realm is he in, dwarf?”

Brok doesn’t answer, and that’s all the answer Kratos needs.

“No.” He steps back, eyes widening in a mix of fear and desperation. “No, he can’t – _he can’t!_ ”

“I’m sorry –”

“Your apologies cannot bring my son back from the realm of the _gods_ ,” Kratos mutters, but the fight has left his voice. In the short time Brok has known him, he has never seen Kratos look so utterly defeated.

They stand together in silence for a moment before Kratos turns around and walks slowly back into the temple. Brok follows him, pausing when Kratos stops in front of the door to the realm between realms.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, and Kratos doesn’t miss the note of concern in his voice.

“To the only person who may be able to help.”

Kratos steps into the light before Brok can say anything more. He steps out onto the branches of Yggdrasil and traces the familiar path to the next door.

“Brother…” Mimir begins. When Kratos doesn’t reply, he continues gently, “You know there is only so much she can do.”

Kratos remains silent.

The light of Yggdrasil gives way to the dark of the caves beneath Freya’s home. Kratos’ movements are slow and deliberate. Now that his attention is no longer focussed solely on reaching his son, the pain of his injuries is burning again through his body. He walks slowly up the incline to Freya’s door and knocks.

“Freya,” Kratos calls, and he hears the small sounds in the house silence. Perhaps she can hear the weakness in his voice. “ _Please_.”

That one word is all Freya needs to run to the door. Her first thought is that Atreus has fallen ill again, but when she sees first Kratos’ empty arms, and then the empty space beside him, she realises it is something much worse than that.

“Come in,” Freya says, voice cracking as she grabs at Kratos’ wrists. She can see the toll taken on him by events unknown to her. Once he’s inside, in the light, Freya notices the injuries.

“You’re hurt.” Her voice is soft and distracted. She points Kratos to take a seat and feels her heart sink when he moves without hesitation or argument. “Let me heal you, then you can tell me what happened.”

Kratos doesn’t argue, only rests his arms on his knees and hangs his head. Freya slips out into the garden and returns moments later with a handful of plants. She begins mixing up what Kratos can only assume is some form of healing balm or spell.

“Some of these wounds are old,” Freya says, crouching in front of him when she has finished. She dips her fingers into a bowl full of a thin, green paste before rubbing them across a fading bruise. Kratos merely moves his arms out of her way.

“You know I can heal myself,” Kratos says after a few minutes of having the green paste spread over his wounds.

“And yet you did not.” Freya dips her fingertips back into the bowl and lifts her hand. She comes to his shoulder and pauses. She was once a warrior – Queen of the Valkyries, no less. She knows what an arrow wound looks like. And she knows how electricity scars. There is only one person she knows of with arrows of lightning.

“Who did this?” Freya asks, running a finger around the arrow wound. Kratos winces, though whether from the pain of her fingers brushing the puncture or from the memory of just who shot him, she isn’t sure.

Kratos does not answer her, but they both know he does not need to.

When Freya finishes smearing the paste over Kratos’ wounds she sets the bowl down at her side and adjusts her crouch so she is looking up into Kratos’ eyes.

“What happened?” she asks gently.

“He took him,” Kratos replies, his voice a whisper. “He took Atreus.”

“Who did?”

“Baldur.”

There is such malice in Kratos’ voice than Freya almost reels backwards. Her mind whirls, and she must look down at the ground so Kratos does not see the look on her face.

“Where?”

“Where do you think?” he snarls. “The one place I cannot go.”

“Surely not –”

“The bridge points to Asgard.” Kratos turns his head away and squares his jaw. “I had hoped you would know of a way to the realm.”

Freya stares at him, mouth slightly agape, for a good few minutes before she is finally able to form a coherent thought.

“You know I cannot leave Midgard –”

“You do not need to. I just need to find my son.”

Freya reaches out and wraps her hands around Kratos’. “There is nothing you can do. No other way to get there. You cannot even use the Travel Room, as Odin has made it so that only a select few can reach Asgard.”

“Sure you know the travel rune. I only need to find a way to open the doors –”

“I do not.” There is so much emotion in Freya’s voice that Kratos is silenced. He looks down at her. Her eyes are not wet but they glisten, as though tears are not far away. “I never knew it. Odin would never tell me. And then he cast me out to Midgard. Trapped me here. It was not like I could ever use the rune, even if he had shown me it. I’m sorry, Kratos. There is nothing I can do for you.”

Kratos stares down at Freya in silence. Then he stands, pulls his hands out of hers and walks to the front door. Freya does not try to stop him, only follows after him. She watches from the doorway as he crosses her garden and moves to one of the large, rune-inscribed rocks beside her house. Kratos stands before it for a moment, eerily still. Then he lets out a roar – a roar of pain and fury and desperation – and slams his fist into the rock as flames alight on his skin. Freya closes her eyes and slips back inside to allow him solitude in his moment of weakness. Even after she closes the door and calls for Chaurli to lower her home, she can still hear Kratos, and the destruction he brings.

 

Long after the screams and shouts die down, Freya finds herself wandering out into her garden in search of Kratos. She is not sure if he even remains near her home, but she searches for him regardless. She finds him sitting atop a raised portion of the ground, next to the sand bowl overlooking the now-destroyed rune-inscribed stones.

“It’s getting late. You should come inside. Even gods feel the cold.”

Kratos looks down at her, then lifts his gaze again.

“You cannot stay out here forever,” Freya tries again. “And it would be unwise to return to your own home.”

“Is there really nothing I can do?” Kratos asks, voice quiet. If Freya didn’t know better, she’d say she heard it break.

“I truly am sorry.” They are both silent for a moment, before Freya asks, “May I join you?” When Kratos gives a faint nod, she climbs to sit beside him.

They sit together for a few moments, Freya’s hands clasped in her lap and Kratos’ draped over his knees. Finally Freya moves one of her hands to rest on Kratos’.

“Please,” she says, voice very small, “tell me what happened.”

“I led him astray. I allowed him to go unchecked for too long. Once he knew he was a god, he began to act…unlike himself. I told him the way he was acting was wrong, but…” Kratos trails off and turns away again. He closes his eyes. “Obviously I was not clear enough. He had it in his head that there was a certain way gods acted – that to be a god meant to act like the Æsir. He deluded himself with the idea of being a good god – of being like Tyr – and yet he was anything but. He killed Modi, and I could do nothing to stop him. He could not seem to grasp the concept that it was wrong.”

“Kratos…”

“I should have tried harder. Taught him better. But I did not have the time – it was almost as soon as he found out that he began to change. I told him to be better than me, and he tried to become a better monster.”

“He did this, didn’t he?” Freya points to the puncture wound on Kratos’ chest.

“Yes. When Baldur attacked, I told him to run, but he would no longer listen to me. When I held him back, he shot me in retaliation. Baldur grabbed him immediately after. And now he is lost to me.”

Freya squeezes the back of Kratos’ hand gently. “He is not lost to you,” she says softly. “The Æsir will have reasons for taking him. He will come back to you, I can assure you.”

Kratos looks down at Freya, and she offers him a faint, reassuring smile.

“Will you help me find him?” Kratos asks, his voice a whisper.

“I will do everything in my power to reunite you with him,” Freya promises.

Her words alone alight inside Kratos a faint spark of hope, and for the moment, that is enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus is very afraid, and Baldur is very manipulative, and it makes for a very bad (good?) combination.

Atreus wakes up to warm light splashing across his face, and something soft beneath him. His memories are foggy – something caused him to black out, he is sure. Everything immediately before that is a blur.

When he tries to open his eyes, the light that’s warming his aching body momentarily blinds him, and he screws his eyes shut again. Surely it can’t hurt to lay there a moment and allow himself time to adjust.

“You’re sure of it?”

The unfamiliar voice greets Atreus’ ears. It takes him a moment to really register it, and by then another voice has started speaking.

“I’m sure.” This voice is definitely familiar, but Atreus can’t quite put his finger on where he’s heard it. “He said it to my face, right before he came at me with that toothpick – ‘I’m a god, too’.”

_Baldur._

Atreus remembers. He remembers Baldur attacking them before they could cross the bridge to Jötunheimr. He remembers his father destroying the gate. He remembers launching himself at Baldur, and he remembers Baldur sinking his own knife deep into his shoulder.

“Curious,” the unfamiliar voice says. “Given what we know –”

“I will talk to him,” Baldur says, cutting the first voice off. “I will find the answers you so desire. And then you will uphold your end of the deal.”

“Only when you do everything I have assigned to you. Already we have had _one_ setback. Do not make it another.”

Atreus tries to push himself up so he can see the person Baldur is speaking to, but the second he puts weight on his arm his shoulder explodes in a burst of pain. Despite himself, Atreus gives an audible groan, and the conversation stops suddenly. Atreus can make out the sound of hushed whispers, then footsteps – one set moving away while the other moves closer.

“Well hello.”

Atreus opens his eyes to find Baldur hovering over him. He pushes himself instinctively away, which ends up with him only pushing himself deeper into the bed. Baldur laughs at his display and pulls back, out of Atreus’ line of sight.

“You can sit up.”

“I don’t think I can,” Atreus groans. He tries to push himself up again, only for another burst of pain to shoot through his arm. He hears Baldur cluck his tongue in disappointment, then a moment later something thick and cool is being smeared across Atreus’ arm, right over the site of the knife wound.

“What is that?” Atreus asks through teeth grit from the pain.

“It will speed up the healing process,” Baldur says simply. He places a hand flat against Atreus’ back and pushes the boy upright.

“Why help me? Why not let it get infected – or worse, why not just kill me?”

“I can’t very well allow our honoured guest to sit around in pain, can I?”

“Honoured…guest?”

“And kill you? Whatever gives you the impression that I would seek to kill you?”

“You kidnapped me! And stabbed me with my own knife!” Atreus gasps as he comes to a sudden realisation. He slaps his hand against his belt and looks down at the same time – his knife is no longer on his person. Likewise, his bow and quiver have been removed.

“A simple misunderstanding.” Baldur waves a hand dismissively. “And don’t worry about your weapons – they’re over there, against the wall, should you need them. But remember, if you should feel so inclined as to use them, _I can’t feel anything_.”

Atreus swallows thickly and gives a slow, curt nod. Baldur’s expression changes to a humourless smile and he turns his body slightly more towards Atreus.

“I’m just going to ask you a few questions, okay?” he says, not even attempting to soften his voice for Atreus.

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“That would be a mistake. See, I may be under instruction not to hurt you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have my fun with the people you care about.”

Atreus squares his jaw and glares up at Baldur. Then he drops his head. “What do you want to know?” he asks, defeated.

Baldur’s lips twist into a grin. He knits his fingers together and rests his chin on his hands. “Tell me about your father.”

“What about him?”

“What is he?” Baldur leans towards Atreus, who pushes himself backwards to get away, ignorant of the spikes of pain in his arm. Baldur narrows his eyes. “He’s a Jötunn, isn’t he?”

“He – what?” Atreus splutters, eyes widening in confusion. “No! No, he’s a –”

_You will keep OUR secret._

“He’s not a Jötunn? But then that would mean…” Baldur trails off as realisation hits him. He straightens up, eyes alight with a mad fire. “He’s a _god_!”

Panic grips Atreus.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Baldur grins down at him. “You said it yourself – told me to my face that you were a god, too. I had thought you meant your mother, perhaps, but your father…” He pauses, narrows his eyes. “Your mother.” He seems to roll the words around in his mouth. When he finally speaks again, his voice is low. “Where is she?”

Atreus looks away. “She’s dead.”

Baldur roars, and Atreus throws himself away from the angry god. Baldur stands up, back to Atreus. He mutters something Atreus does not understand, but his tone is enough to terrify the boy.

“She was the one we needed!” Baldur shouts suddenly, whirling around. The rage in his eyes shoots cold daggers of fear down Atreus’ spine. “All this time I thought it was your father, but it was her! And she’s _dead_!” He stands there, chest rising and falling as he breathes heavily, before his eyes widen a touch in realisation. “She’s dead…” he leans forwards, resting his hands on the edge of the bed, “and you’re her _son_.”

Atreus cannot form a coherent sentence. He stares up at Baldur with wide, fearful eyes.

“Was your mother mortal?” Baldur asks, and from the look on his face Atreus can tell he already knows the answer.

“She – she was. That’s what father said.”

Baldur studies Atreus for a moment before his lips twist into a wicked grin. “He lied to you, boy,” he says, pushing himself back off the bed.

“What? No, he – she wasn’t a god. She can’t have been.”

“Not a god, boy. A Jötunn.”

The words hit Atreus hard, stunning him into silence. He manages to squeak out a faint, “No,” but no other words come out.

“I was sent to find your mother. Only, I didn’t know she was your _mother_. And I certainly didn’t know she was dead. Shame I didn’t find her when she was alive.”

“There was a stave,” Atreus says, still numb from the shock, “around the house. Father cut one of the trees forming it down for her funeral pyre. You never would have found her if she were alive.”

“He knew, then? What it was?”

“No. She marked the trees she wanted. Maybe she knew.”

“More than likely.” Baldur’s expression twists into a smirk and he sits at the edge of the bed. “You’re part Jötunn, boy. And your father never told you.”

Atreus’ eyes widen a touch. “He didn’t know,” he says, his voice small.

Baldur snorts softly. “Is that what he told you? And I suppose he was honest about your godhood from the very beginning, too?”

“I –”

“He lied to you about what you are.” Baldur reaches out, and Atreus jerks his head away. Baldur withdraws his hand. “He lied to you, Atreus. Withheld your birthright from you. You are a god. Perhaps not one of this land, but a god all the same. And your father would have allowed you to continue thinking you were nothing more than a mere mortal until the day you died.”

Atreus screws his eyes shut. He does not want to cry in front of this man – in front of this _monster_ – but he can feel the tears burning at the back of his throat.

“And to go so far as to lie to you about your own mother?” Baldur shakes his head. “To lie about his own past is one thing, but to deny the very existence of someone else’s? Shameful. How can you ever look him in the eye again knowing what he has kept from you?”

Atreus balls his hands into fists, gripping the furs piled under him tightly. “Get. Out,” he mutters, voice low.

“What?”

“I said get out!” Atreus roars, hurling himself forwards to shove Baldur away. As he moves, flames spring up along his arms and torso. He pushes Baldur clean off the bed with strength neither of them knew he possessed. Baldur scrambles to his feet, shocked.

“How –?”

“Leave me _alone_!” Atreus springs off the bed, vaulting himself at the Æsir god. Baldur steps out of his way and moves back across the room to the door. A second later Atreus is on him, shoving him backwards. “Don’t you _dare_ speak of my father like that!”

“You know I’m right!” Baldur snaps his hands out and grabs Atreus’ wrists, holding them tightly.

“Let me go!” Atreus snaps, kicking out. The flames on his arms flare up and Baldur drops him, more from the surprise than the pain he can’t feel.

“You know I’m right, Atreus. Don’t deny it!”

“Get _out_!” Atreus shoves Baldur roughly, and there’s enough force in his push to send the god flying backwards out the door. Atreus runs to it quickly, slamming it shut and pushing his whole weight against it. He knows that if Baldur really wanted to get in, he’d have no hope of stopping him.

But Baldur doesn’t try to get in. He doesn’t break the door apart. Doesn’t pull it down off its hinges. Doesn’t even try to simply push it open. He just pushes himself to his feet and walks away.

The rage in Atreus gives way to an all-encompassing sadness and he drops to his knees. Atreus looks down at his hands, at the few faint sparks that remain flickering between his fingers. God’s hands. Jötunn’s hands.

Atreus’ shoulders begin to shake and he lets out a broken sob. He crosses his arms over his chest and grips his forearms tightly, digging his fingers into the skin hard enough to leave crescent marks. He tries to imagine it’s his mother’s arms around him, holding him tightly, just like she always would when he was sad or afraid. But he cannot trick himself into believing it. He knows she is dead. He knows she is gone.

Another sob escapes him, and the first tear falls.

He’s alone, and afraid. If only he had listened to his father, if only he had run –

But what right does his father have to tell him what to do, when he lied for years to Atreus about what he was?

No. No, he cannot begin to think that way. His father was only trying to protect him, he tells himself. Trying to spare him from the pain of being a god.

And in return, cursed him with illness. With weakness. Denied him his heritage and his _right_. And lied about his mother.

His mother.

Atreus opens his eyes, looks down at his hands. His vision is swimming with tears, but he can still make out the runes tattooed into his arm. A gift from his mother. A blessing. All his father ever gave him was a curse.

A fresh wave of tears burns at the back of his throat and he screws his eyes shut again, feeling them spill over and run down his cheeks. He doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know who to believe. He can’t trust Baldur. But it would seem he can’t trust his father, either.

Atreus digs his fingernails into his palms so hard that they split the skin. The pain does little to clear his mind, only produces more tears. Atreus moves his arms so they’re again wrapped tightly about himself, and grasps at his forearms. He curls in on himself, whole body shaking from the force of his sobs.

He doesn’t know what to do. He feels lost. He is alone and breaking – fracturing into a million pieces. All he wants is to return home – to the home he is no longer sure awaits him.

There is a war waging inside him. No longer is it the war of his mortality against his godhood, though. It’s another war now – the sins of his father against the sins of the Æsir. His faith in his father against the lies he has told. His fear of the Æsir against the truth they have brought to light.

Atreus isn’t sure which side will win out. He isn’t even sure which side he wants to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback and constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated!  
> What're your thoughts and expectations for the story?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kratos interrogates a few semi-willing participants and Atreus makes a new friend.

Kratos wakes up in an unfamiliar room, in a bed that’s just a touch too small. He rolls onto his side and finds himself looking at a blazing hearth. He cannot see Freya anywhere in the house. After a moment, he pushes himself upright and stands beside the bed.

Kratos is used to sleeping with his weapons in reach, if not still strapped to his back. Waking up without them is a strange feeling, and for a fleeting moment he forgets Freya insisted he put them aside. But there they are, resting beside her worktable, just as he left them the night before.

After taking a moment to fit his blades to his back and place his axe back in its holder, Kratos moves to the back door and steps out into Freya’s garden. He finds her down by the stream, drawing a small net from the water.

“Do you eat fish?” she asks as she hears him approach.

“I thought you could not harm any creature,” Kratos replies, dodging her question.

Freya draws the net up onto the bank and ties the closed mouth to a large, sturdy pole dug deep into the ground. “Not by magic or weapons, yes. But there are ways around Odin’s curse.” She steps back from the net to look down at the fish. “I need simply leave them out of the water while I eat of a morning. By the time I return they have usually died, and I can do as I need – it is not hurting them when they are already dead.” She offers a faint smile as she stands. “Though, I regret that I must leave them to suffer. But I must eat, too, and there is only so much that I can gain from the plants around my home.”

Kratos looks down at the net, and the fish writhing about within. “You do this every day?”

“Most.” Freya dries her hands on her pants before walking back towards the house. “Will you help me gather food for our meal?”

There is a moment for curt silence before Kratos gives a soft, “What do you need?”

Freya lifts a couple of wicker baskets from beside her door and holds one out to Kratos. “Surely you know your way around the fruits of the forest? A man like you, living off the land – I assume you know what is and isn’t poisonous.”

“You grow poisonous plants in your garden?” Kratos raises an eyebrow.

“For my spells, yes. Now, do you want to eat or not?” She waves a hand for him to go and turns around, heading in the other direction. Kratos watches as she begins to pluck fresh fruits from the trees and bushes beside her home. His eyes narrow at sight of some of them – surely they are well out of season.

After a moment of watching Freya, Kratos turns to the plants on the other side of the house. He is greeted by the sight of a blackberry bush, laden with ripe berries. Definitely out of season. Kratos takes what he thinks will be enough for the both of them before moving on to the next bush. Bright green gooseberries adorn its branches. Kratos, again, picks enough for the both of them. He chances to look back before moving on, and notices the blackberries he only just picked already beginning to regrow. Beneath his hand, fresh gooseberries are already forming.

Enchanted.

Kratos snorts softly, the corner of his mouth turning upwards. Of course the bushes are enchanted. How else could the fruits and berries grow in such numbers so far out of season? He supposes everything else in Freya’s garden is enchanted, too. He doesn’t check, merely continues gathering the fruits she asked for.

 

After Freya lays out their meal – the fruits and berries they collected, as well as still-warm bread and a small jar of honey – she slips out of the house to check on the fish. Kratos takes the few minutes of silence to consider what Freya told him the day before.

“I know what you’re thinking, brother.”

Kratos looks up at the sound of Mimir’s voice. He turns around in his seat to face the head, who until only moment prior had been still asleep on the table by the bed.

“There must be another way to reach him.”

“The Travel Room holds the only door to Asgard, brother. And even if you could get in, you don’t know the rune –”

“Someone must. Someone out there needs to know it.” Another thought hits him. “Magni and Modi came to Midgard with Baldur, and they didn’t come through the Travel Room, surely – they would have hunted Brok as they tried to hunt Sindri. There must be another way to Asgard.”

Mimir sighs, and Kratos has the feeling that he’d be shaking his head if it were still attached to his body. “Maybe there is, brother, but maybe not – I do not know.”

“You know everything,” Kratos growls. “If you are withholding something from me –”

“Nothing of the sort, brother! I truthfully do not know if there is another path to Asgard. In all the time I worked for Odin, I only ever used the Travel Room. I never had any need for another path, and they never showed me any other. I honestly do not know.”

The faint spark of hope in Kratos dies and he turns back around, just as Freya returns.

“You could have started eating,” she says, sitting opposite him. She takes a plum from the plate and bites into it. When Kratos does not move, she sighs and lowers the hand holding the plum.

“Listen, Kratos…I know it is hard. I know what it’s like to lose a child, believe me. But you cannot let it overcome you. You _will_ find him, and I _will_ help you – that is my promise. But you need to take care of yourself before you can go off looking for him. And while you are staying in my home, under my care, I will not allow you to starve yourself out of worry. So eat.”

Kratos looks up at Freya and meets her gaze. He can see the seriousness in her eyes, and can hear it in her voice. He does not miss the note of compassion, either, but he is not prepared to play to it when Freya is glaring at him. So he sighs, and reaches out to take a crab apple. Only after he bites into it does Freya relax and lean back. She continues eating, but keeps her eyes on Kratos to ensure that he does, too.

When Kratos finishes eating he pushes his chair back to stand and walks to the front door.

“Where are you going?” Freya asks worriedly, standing as well.

“There are still monsters in this land. Some even reside beneath your home. I am simply going to do a little fighting.”

“And that’s all?”

“That is all.”

Freya watches as Kratos opens the door and steps out into her yard. She sits down slowly as he moves from her view, and reaches out to take another plum, which she bites into nervously.

“He’s lying.” She looks up at Mimir, whose eyes are trained on the door. “He was lying.”

 

“What do you know of the gods?”

Brok looks up from the blade he was hammering at. He turns to face Kratos, before dumping his hammer on a bench and walking over to the counter.

“What’re you thinkin’?”

“Did you ever see Magni and Modi come from the Travel Room?”

“How could they? Thing’s been stuck in Midgard for over a hundred winters.”

“Then I was right – they have another way of reaching Midgard.”

Brok raises an eyebrow. He leans an elbow on the counter and gestures towards Kratos while he speaks. “You know what’s mad? You. You’re crazy. Thinking you can find another way up to Asgard – thinking they’ll just let you waltz on in there. The Æsir will strike you down soon as they would a fly. You got no hope of getting to that place.”

Kratos stares down at the dwarf, his expression twisting into one that Brok cannot read. “You are hiding something from me,” he says, voice low. Brok’s eyes widen just a touch.

“Awful bold of you.”

“I’m very good at reading people.”

“Suppose you’ve gotta be.” Brok turns away and picks up the hammer he dumped moments prior. Kratos gives a low huff and folds his arms. “You wanna know what I’m hiding? Okay, fine. There _is_ another way to Asgard. Always has been. Before Tyr built this temple, there was another path. Do I know anything else about it? No. Do I know where it is? No. Do I even know what it’s called? Not a fuckin’ clue. But it’s out there. So how about you run along and find someone else who knows more ‘bout it than I do, and let me do my job?”

Kratos glares the dwarf down for a moment before dropping his arms and turning around. He steps up to the doorway to the realm between realms and steps through onto the branches of the Yggdrasil tree. Kratos half expects Mimir to start talking to him – but of course, he left the head with Freya.

The branches of the tree give way to grass beneath Kratos’ feet as he steps out into the shadow of the mountain. He follows the faint sound of hammering to the courtyard, where Sindri is tapping away at a new project.

Kratos makes it almost all the way to the small shop before the distracted dwarf notices him. He set his hammer down and looks up as Kratos approaches.

“I’m surprised to see you,” he comments, leaning against the counter.

“Why?”

“I saw the dragon fly over yesterday. Little hard to miss it. And sound carries rather well up there, so…well, I heard the gateway come down.” Sindri lowers his gaze, and as he does his eyes fall on the arrow wound. It’s healed over thanks to Freya’s magic, but there’s no mistaking the shape of the entry wound and the scars like lightning spiking out across Kratos’ chest and shoulder. Sindri indicates towards it and starts, “Did _Atreus_ –”

“Baldur has Atreus,” Kratos cuts him off. Sindri freezes, hand slowly lowering in shock. “I couldn’t reach him in time. He’s in Asgard.”

Sindri rests his hands on the counter and stares down, eyes wide. “I–I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do –”

“Your brother said something about a pathway to Asgard. He didn’t know much. I was hoping you would.”

Sindri sucks in a deep breath and straightens. “The Bifröst,” he says, and Kratos can see him pale.

“What about it?” Kratos goes to unhook his Bifröst from his belt, but Sindri holds out a hand.

“Not a Bifröst crystal – _the_ Bifröst. The rainbow bridge to Asgard. The only path there before Tyr built his temple – unless you wanted to run the risk of climbing the branches of the World Tree itself.”

“Where is it?” Kratos asks, leaning forwards.

“That I don’t know. There are few still alive who do. But I can tell you once you find it – if you find it – you’ll have a hard time getting to Asgard. The bridge is guarded by the god Heimdallr. He stands guard, keeping watch for the onset of Ragnarök.”

“Can he be beaten?”

“He is destined to be killed during Ragnarök.”

“But can he be defeated?”

“I know you like messing about with forces that _should_ be beyond your control, but facing Heimdallr in combat is not something you should be considering. Besides, you cannot hope to defeat him where he stands. You’ll have no chance of sneaking up on him – even if the Bifröst weren’t a literal rainbow and had places along it that you could hide behind, he would see you coming. He has the gift of foreknowledge, and the best eyesight among all the gods. The best hearing, too – you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Kratos folds his arms and looks away. “I cannot leave him there,” he says after a moment.

“I know. I know, but…well, the Æsir are smart. They want him for a reason.”

“Freya said the same.”

Sindri nods slowly. “There will come an opportunity to get him back. Whatever the Æsir have planned, they will not wait around. They will strike soon. I suggest you prepare yourself.”

Kratos looks down at the dwarf. He reaches back and unhooks his axe, before setting it down on the table. “What can you do for me?”

 

* * *

 

 

Atreus feels empty.

He’s been lying in the bed in a state of half-consciousness for hours. It was probably an hour ago that the sun set. But then again, it could have been two – or it could have only been five minutes. Atreus isn’t really sure. He doesn’t really care.

There’s a knock at the door. When Atreus neither calls back nor rises to answer it, the knock comes again, a little more worried this time. A silent beat passes, then the door swings inwards, revealing a woman with a worried face standing in the hall. She notices Atreus curled up on the bed and she relaxes, expression slipping into one of relief.

The woman walks slowly to the bed and sits on the side Atreus is facing. She has long, fiery hair held back with a gold ribbon, and wears a long cream coloured dress hemmed and detailed in gold.

“Hello, child,” she says gently, tilting her head so she can meet Atreus’ distant gaze. “I’m –”

“Fulla,” Atreus says softly, voice hoarse.

The goddess blinks in surprise at the recognition, then nods. “However did you know?”

“Mother told me about the gods when I was young. You always wore your hair out, tied back with a gold ribbon.”

Fulla smiles warmly and reaches a hand out. When Atreus doesn’t pull away, she drags her fingers lightly through his short hair. He closes his eyes and leans a little into her touch. For a moment he can imagine it’s his mother running her fingers through his hair, just as she did when he was young and afraid, or whenever he was bedridden from his sickness.

Fulla moves her hand to cup the side of his face gently and strokes her thumb across his cheek. She’s so different from Baldur, her touch warm and caring compared to his cold, uncompassionate grip.

“You must be hungry,” Fulla says gently.

Atreus opens his eyes and looks up at her. “Yes.” He coughs, throat dry, and Fulla’s smile falls slightly.

“Did they leave you in here with nothing to drink?” She sits upright, drawing her hand away from Atreus’ face, and looks around the room. “Ridiculous.”

“Do you have anything I can drink?”

Fulla’s face softens and she runs her hair through Atreus’ hair again. “Not with me, no. But I can get you some. Why don’t you come with me – I can get you something to drink and you can wash yourself, then we can go join the meal.”

Atreus bites his lip softly, then pushes himself up. He winces slightly as the muscles in his arm tense – the stab wound is almost completely healed, but there’s still a faint surface wound and a scab leaving it yet to heal fully. Fulla helps Atreus sit up with a gentle hand and he throws his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Come with me,” Fulla says, standing. Atreus stands beside her and she puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. It’s nothing like his father’s – her hand is much thinner, the fingers longer and slimmer, the skin softer – but there’s still something familiar and comforting in the touch.

Fulla leads him just a few doors down the hall to a small, simple room. There’s a wooden bath against the wall, partially filled with water. Faint traces of steam curl from the surface.

“Wait here, I’ll be just a moment,” Fulla says as she ushers Atreus inside. He moves to take a seat on the stool beside the bath. When Fulla returns a few minutes later, she is holding a small cup and a pitcher of water. She fills the cup and passes it to Atreus, who drinks from it easily.

“Thank you,” he says, wiping his mouth when he finishes. Fulla offers him a smile and sets the pitcher down on the stool he had been sitting on.

“Try to bathe quickly. The others will begin eating soon, and I would hate for you to miss it. They’re dining in Valhalla tonight.”

“Don’t they always?”

“Mostly. See, Asgard is divided into twelve smaller realms – one for each of the primary gods. Usually we eat in Odin’s throne room, in Valhalla, but sometimes one of the other gods will host us.”

“You live in Valhalla, don’t you?”

“Well, yes. I used to serve the Lady Frigg.”

“Before she left.”

“Yes. Before she left.” Fulla’s voice softens a touch, and Atreus feels his heart clench. He pushed it too far. Before he can even think to apologise, Fulla brightens up. “Well? Hurry along. We don’t want to keep the others waiting, now, do we? And your bath is going cold. I’ll wait outside for you until you’re finished.”

She steps out of the room and pulls the door shut behind her, leaving Atreus alone. He undresses quickly and begins to check himself for any injuries that he’d need to tend to. He finds no fresh wounds, aside from the one healing on his shoulder. His forearms are still smeared with blood from where he clutched at them that morning.

Atreus cleans the blood and sweat and grime from his skin and hair, relishing in the feeling of being clean. He hasn’t had a proper chance to bathe since he and his father started their journey. Now that he’s clean, he almost dreads leaving the water, but as Fulla said, he is keeping the other gods waiting. Displeasing the gods is the last thing Atreus wants to do.

After he’s dried himself, Atreus reaches for the clothes he dumped earlier, only to find another outfit, neatly folded, beneath the stool the water pitcher sits on. Atreus isn’t sure if they were there before and he simply didn’t see them, or if they were somehow placed there while he bathed without his noticing. He doesn’t really care either way – he’s just happy to be out of the clothes that were caked in the same grime he was.

The new clothes fit Atreus almost perfectly. Thick cotton pants tucked into sturdy leather boots; a wool tunic hemmed with gold under a fur-lined half cloak; and a fine leather belt. Atreus scoops up the clothes he dumped on the floor and pauses. He pulls from the pile the waist cloth his father brought from his homeland. Kratos gave Atreus the cloth when he was young and he’s worn it since. Atreus pauses for a second, then ties the cloth around his waist and hides it beneath the half coat. He will _not_ abandon his father.

Atreus steps out into the hall where Fulla is waiting. She smiles when she sees him.

“Can I keep these?” Atreus asks, lifting the bundle of clothes in his arm. Fulla laughs, and it’s a beautiful, kindly sound.

“Of course you can. Leave them by the bath, though – they’ll need to be washed, but I will make sure they find their way back to you.”

Atreus gives her a grateful smile and sets the clothes down inside the room. He steps back out and walks alongside Fulla.

“Are you nervous?” she asks, noticing the way he clasps at the cloak pin.

Atreus looks up at her, then nods. “Yes.”

“You do not need to be. No harm will come to you here.”

Atreus looks down at the ground, then back at his hands. They walk in silence for a few minutes before Fulla stops before intricate, ornately decorated golden doors.

“Are you ready?” she asks, putting her hand against one of the doors.

Atreus looks up at the goddess, and then straight ahead. He nods once, and Fulla pushes open the doors to the Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly longer chapter for you guys, and an early upload today because I'm going out very soon and don't want to leave you waiting for too long!  
> Chapters will probably start to get longer from this point!  
> Don't forget to leave your thoughts and feedback in the comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus is a little awestruck and Kratos is a little mad.

The Great Hall is vast, beautiful, and filled with people.

Naturally it would be. Valhalla is where dead warriors go, after all. And it would make sense for Odin to feast with his warriors – it’s certainly in his nature to boast with his very presence just how mighty he is. But Atreus was simply not expecting the sheer number of people.

Fulla notices his unease at the crowds – mostly men, all loud and raucous and built like warriors – and places her hand on the back of his shoulder. Atreus takes a half step closer to her and continues walking as she prompts him forwards.

The hall fits an impossibly large amount of people between its four walls. It’s surely a trick – some visual illusion to allow the vision of so many people in such a small space. Atreus has no doubt that the hall is in fact much larger than it appears.

In the centre of the hall is a raised platform. On it is a long table. At one end of the table stand two thrones – one noticeably larger than the other. Gilded chairs are placed along the other three sides of the table, and roughly half of them have been taken up by various gods.

A man sits in the larger throne. He wears golden armour, and his long white hair and beard are braided with silver metal beads. Atreus has no doubt that the god before him is Odin, but it is not the Raven King who makes him stop. It is the two gods sitting a few chairs to his right.

Fulla takes only a single step before realising Atreus is no longer walking with her. He has stopped, and his grip has tightened on her skirts. She looks down at him, sees the fear in his eyes, and turns her head to follow his gaze.

“Who has scared you?” she asks quietly. When Atreus doesn’t answer, she reaches out and pulls him closer to her. “Tell me.”

“I killed him,” Atreus whimpers, and Fulla can feel his skin grow hot under her hand.

“Modi?” Fulla asks, looking down at Atreus. She sees the faintest indication of a nod. “And Magni, beside him.”

“How are they here? Father and I – we killed them.”

“All gods find their way to Valhalla,” Fulla informs him. “It took those two a while. They will remain here, among the fallen warriors.”

Atreus takes a half step away from the table, and Fulla crouches down so she is at his eye level. The goddess cups his cheek gently and meets his gaze.

“No harm will come to you here,” she promises. “They will not lay a finger on you. I will not allow it.”

Atreus’ grip on Fulla’s skirts slowly loosens, and when she is sure he is ready to move again she stands and resumes guiding him towards the table. When they walk up onto the raised platform, all talk at the table quietens. Odin sits up slightly in his chair, and Fulla bows before him. Atreus is tempted to remain standing, but even as he considers it he feels Magni and Modi’s eyes burning into him, and he drops into a messy bow.

“Mighty Allfather,” Fulla says, standing again to her full height. “I apologise for the wait. I was helping our guest to prepare.”

Odin waves a hand dismissively and offers a smile. “I am fully aware of your actions, and you have no reason to apologise. Please, take a seat – both of you. We will commence the meal immediately.”

Fulla nods her head and motions for Atreus to follow her. She walks to an empty chair and sits, waiting for Atreus to sit beside her before beginning to put food from the table onto her plate.

“Is Baldur going to be here?” Atreus asks, picking at a thread in his pants. Fulla gives him a sideways look over her arm.

“Baldur will not be joining us. He has no need to eat, and as he cannot taste the food, it is more a pain than anything else for him to dine with us.”

Atreus doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed, and that revelation scares him a little. On the one hand, Baldur is a monster who has hurt both Atreus and his father, while on the other…well, the events of that morning and the revelations his talk with Baldur brought to light still echo in his mind.

When Atreus spends a minute too many buried in thought, Fulla clucks her tongue and taps his shoulder lightly. “You need to eat,” she says warmly. “It’s not right for a growing boy like you to only watch as others dine.”

Atreus _is_ hungry, that he will admit – but he suddenly feels as though he cannot stomach any of the food laid out before him. Fulla offers what he thinks is an understanding smile and begins adding small portions of food to his plate. Atreus picks at everything, figuring out which foods he likes and which ones he simply cannot stomach. When he’s worked his way through the food on his plate, Fulla notices him adding more, and the action brings a smile to her lips.

Atreus takes the time while he eats to study the other gods. Fulla sat them at the far end of the table to Odin’s right, for which Atreus is grateful – it means he’s sitting on the same side of the table as Thor and his sons, and thus cannot see them. From where he sits, Atreus can see Odin, the male god sitting beside Fulla, and all of the gods on the opposite side of the table.

Odin looks simultaneously exactly how Atreus expected, and nothing like he expected. He looks older than Atreus’ father, but he does not look old. When he laughs with the gods around him, his smile reaches his eyes and his laughter sounds warm, but it the brief second after his laughter ends his smile falls and his eyes look cold. Atreus looks away before the Raven King can meet his gaze.

Fulla is deep in conversation with the man beside her when Atreus turns back to face her. She notices him move from the corner of her eye and leans back slightly so she can talk to the people on either side of her.

“Atreus, did your mother ever tell you of Bragi?” Fulla asks, motioning towards the man on her left.

“She said he was a wonderful poet. Very skilled with words.” Atreus does not miss the proud smile that turns the corners of the god’s lips. “That’s you?”

“Indeed, young one. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Bragi’s voice is rich and warm, and the two sentences alone set Atreus at ease. It makes sense that the god of poetry would have such a pleasant voice.

“You too,” Atreus says, a little star struck. Bragi and Fulla chuckle softly, and resume their quiet conversation. Atreus turns his attention back to the rest of the table. He looks at the gods and goddesses seated along the other side of the table, and begins trying to match their appearances to the descriptions of the gods his mother gave him. He had always wondered how his mother knew so much about the gods, especially when she was not fond of them, but the thought of her being a Jötunn adds a whole new layer to Atreus’ levels of understanding. She would need to know.

Atreus is so caught up in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice the fight break out. It begins to his left, and works its way around the hall as more of the men notice. Soon all the warriors have abandoned their meals in favour of fighting their neighbours.

“Does this happen often?” Atreus asks softly.

“Unfortunately, yes. You’d think after fighting all day, every day, they’d grow tired of it and just sit down to enjoy a meal, but apparently not. Try not to take notice.”

Atreus gives a soft huff and settles back into his chair. He doesn’t know what to do – he’s finished eating, all the other gods are engaged in their own conversations, and it’s not like he could just leave and got back to his room. So he sits, drumming his fingers lightly on the table, and watches.

He watches the gods. The way they hold themselves – poised and dignified. Backs straight and hands folded in their laps. Regal. _Superior_. He watches the mortals. The way they fight – brash and messy, but undoubtedly skilled. Axes and swords, bows and knives. Some tall and lithe and using their speed and nimble figures to their advantage, some bulk and muscle and using their strength to block and parry and crush anything in their way. They’re so _human_.

“Atreus, look out!”

He snaps his head up at Fulla’s cry, in time to see a knife – thrown by a man below with careless aim – coming straight towards him. He has no time to dodge, no time to move away, no time to do anything but throw his hands up and gasp out, “ _St_ _ǫ_ _ð_ _va!”_

The knife does not hit him.

Atreus opens his eyes slowly and raises his head. Fulla is leaning forwards, one hand planted on the table and the other out in front of him to catch the knife. But she never got the chance. Because the knife is floating, frozen in mid-air, just out of her reach.

Atreus jumps back in shock, hands falling away, and the knife clatters to the table. He looks down at it, eyes wide and heart racing. The gods around the table have all silenced. From the corner of his eye, Atreus sees Odin stand.

 

* * *

 

 

Kratos throws the back door open and storms into the house. He throws his axe down onto the bed and storms over to where Mimir’s head is hanging, upside down before the hearth.

“Ah, brother – could you take me down? Freya strung me up a few hours ago. Though I suppose, it could be worse – all the blood would rush to my head if it were still attached to my body.”

Kratos grumbles, unamused, and unhooks the head, only to drop him unceremoniously down on the bedside table.

“You lied to me,” Kratos growls, glaring down at the head.

“I…what?”

“Don’t play dumb, head. You told me you knew of no other way to Asgard, and then the dwarves tell me of the Bifröst. Why didn’t you tell me of it?”

“The Bifröst!” Mimir cries, his eye lighting up. “Would you believe it slipped my mind?”

“I would not,” Kratos snarls. “Tell me about it.”

“About what?”

“The Bifröst.”

“Oh, of course! You can take the Bifröst to Asgard! How did I forget about that?”

Kratos pauses for a moment and studies Mimir. “Yes…how did you forget about it?”

“Forget about what?”

Kratos gives a single, humourless chuckle and folds his arms. “You have been cursed, then, clearly, so you cannot speak of it.”

“Speak of what?”

“The Bifröst.”

“Ah, the Bifrö–”

“Shut it.”

Mimir blinks in surprise before making a motion Kratos would best relate to a shrug and saying, “That’s fair.”

“Where is Freya?”

“She went out a few hours ago. Didn’t say why. She should be back soon, though.”

“She had better be. She and I need to talk.”

“What about?”

Kratos opened his mouth to reply before pausing, and then replying curtly, “Don’t worry.”

Mere minutes later, Kratos feels the house begin to rise. Freya must have summoned it to the surface. He stands and trains his gaze on the front door.

Freya steps inside after the house stops moving and looks up. “You’re back –”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“What –” Freya splutters, turning to Mimir. “What is he talking about?”

“Honestly? I haven’t the foggiest.”

“You said there was no other way to Asgard, and yet the dwarves tell me of another path.”

Freya tenses. “No,” she says, working her way around her wording, “I told you I did not know the travel rune leading to Asgard. I never said there was no other way.”

Kratos snaps his hand out and catches Freya’s forearm, pulling her to him. “You lied to me. Deceived me. You promised you would help me, and then said there was nothing more you could do.”

“Let me go,” Freya growls, voice low.

“Why won’t you help me save my son?”

“Because I made a promise to reunite you, but I cannot very well do that if you are dead!” Freya yanks her arm out of Kratos’ hold and rubs at the red mark left from his grip. “If you step foot on that bridge, you will die. Heimdallr sees all, knows all – he is blessed with foreknowledge and so the very second you decide to walk the Bifröst _he will know_. He will not show you mercy because you are seeking out a child. He will exploit that weakness, and he will kill you.”

Kratos turns away from Freya and picks up his axe from where it landed on the bed. “How do I find this bridge?”

“Have you not listened to a word I’ve said?” Freya cries, grabbing desperately at Kratos to try and catch his attention.

“How do I find it?”

“I don’t know!”

“Don’t!” Kratos turns around and glares down, right into Freya’s eyes. “You have lied to me enough. Do not lie again.”

“I’m not,” Freya replies, tone almost desperate. “I don’t know. Odin moves the Bifröst whenever it is found by someone on Midgard. I was never taught how to locate it.”

Freya blinks, and Kratos can see the shine of unshed tears in her eyes.

“Please,” she whispers. “I know you want to find Atreus. And I will help you. I am trying to. But you need to listen to me. If you try to cross that bridge, it will be the last thing you ever do. Then you will never find your son.”

Kratos stares down at her before he closes his eyes and turns his head away. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and low. “The Bifröst may be my only chance to find him. And I will find it, with or without your help.”

He pulls away, and Freya slowly lowers her hands. Just as Kratos reaches the back door she calls after him, “Wait.”

Kratos looks over his shoulder, expression unreadable. He says nothing, just waits for Freya to continue.

“There may be someone who can help you.”

“Who?”

“Her name is Hnoss. She’s a minor Vanir goddess. You can trust her.”

“How can she help me?”

“She was a child when I married Odin, and during the peace she would visit Heimdallr. He would explain to her how all things came to be – would teach her the secrets of the universe. She spent much of her youth with him. One of the things he taught her was how to find the Bifröst. I dare say she is the only Vanir that knows, and she will be your best hope of finding the bridge.”

“How do I find her? I could not reach Vanaheim even if the Travel Room were still in Midgard.”

“She does not reside in Vanaheim. Long ago, after the peace was broken, she came to Midgard. She is a goddess of desire and lust, and where better to find it than among mortals?”

“How do I find her?”

“She is often drawn to lust. To desire. Look to places full of riches, cities built on dirty money. Those will be the best places to start.”

Kratos studies Freya for a moment before he turns around and walks over to her. He holds out his hand, and she clasps his forearm with her own hand. He mimics the gesture.

“Thank you,” he says, the words so quiet Freya almost misses them. She nods curtly and pulls her hand away.

Kratos walks over to the bedside table and lifts Mimir. He ties the head to his belt and walks to the front door. Freya watches him go without another word.

 

* * *

 

Atreus was hurried by Fulla out of the Great Hall, away from the still-fighting warriors, and back to his own room, where he was told to wait until someone came to talk to him. That was over an hour ago, and Atreus is struggling to stay awake.

He’s taken to tracing the lines along his hands. He runs a fingertip lightly along each criss-crossing line, over his palm then around each of his fingers. The creases of the knuckles and the folds of his hand. The strokes on the soft skin between each finger.

Atreus has vague memories of someone tracing the same lines across his hands. He was too young at the time to remember anything but the feeling – a warm, gentle touch.

The door opens and Atreus looks up. Baldur saunters in, and the door slams behind him.

“I hear you’ve been…playing around,” he says, cocking his head. “Shame I missed it.”

“Nearly being hit with a knife isn’t really what I call playing around,” Atreus replies, too tired to put any snap into his voice.

“No, no, I suppose not.” Baldur crosses the room to stand by the wall and stops beside the small table where Atreus’ weapons are stored – his knife on top of it, bow and quiver leaning against it. “But, really, I was talking more about how you caught it.”

Baldur spins suddenly, and Atreus sees something leave his hand. With a cry, the boy throws his hands up, mouth forming the word he called earlier at the table.

Atreus hears clapping, and Baldur’s soft laughter. “Ve-ry good!” the god praises, a chuckle breaking the words.

When Atreus opens his eyes, the knife his father gave him is hovering in front of him. He lets go of his hold over it and catches it before it hits the bed. In a burst of rage he hurls it at Baldur, and watches with satisfaction as it sinks deep into the god’s collar.

Baldur looks down at the knife, then back up at Atreus, face a stone mask. The buzz of elation Atreus feels is replaced with cold dread.

But then Baldur simply shrugs. “I suppose that’s fair,” he says, causing Atreus to start in surprise. He was expecting anger, not acceptance.

Baldur pulls the knife from his collar and drops it onto the table he lifted it from. He looks down at the wound, which is already beginning to knit itself back together, and nods. “I think you hit the bone. You’ve got a good arm. We’ll definitely work on making it better.”

“What are you talking about?” Atreus asks.

“Odin was very impressed with your, uh…performance tonight. He wasn’t entirely sure about you, but you managed to convince him. And he’s enlisted me to train you.”

Atreus stares ahead for a moment before clenching his jaw. “And if I say no?”

Baldur laughs, and the sound chills his blood. “Oh, trust me,” he says, mouth twisting into a sick grin. “You won’t say no.”

The two gods share a moment of tense eye contact before Baldur takes a step back. “Well, I should leave you. You look positively dead on your feet, and you’ll need to be full of energy tomorrow.” He gives a curt mock wave and spins on his heel, walking to the door. He opens it again, and is almost all the way out when he turns back to look at Atreus. His voice is cold when he says, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Atreus hears the threat in his voice. It’s awfully hard to miss.

He doesn’t get much sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed chapter four aka "the author did some digging into Norse mythology and now there are even more characters"  
> Sorry it took me a little longer to upload today, time kind of slipped awa  
> But hey, things are definitely starting to heat up now! And the next few chapters are going to get even more intense  
> Well I mean the whole rest of the story is going to be intense, if everything goes to plan  
> Because that's who I am as a person  
> And yes the entire Bifröst scene with Mimir was based off a comment on the last chapter, love you  
> Leave your thoughts and predictions in the comments below!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus shows off and learns a few things about himself along the way.

It is, mercifully, Fulla who raises Atreus from his fitful sleep. She knocks lightly and opens the door a crack before walking in. She carries a silver platter laden with fruits, cheeses, butter, honey and still-warm bread. In the other hand she carries a pitcher, with a cup resting in place on the top.

Fulla sets both the platter and pitcher on the small table up against the wall and walks over to the bed. She takes a seat on the edge and reaches out to rouse Atreus.

“Good morning, child,” she says, voice warm. She touches his shoulder gently, and it’s enough to wake him from his light sleep.

Atreus gives a feeble groan and pushes himself up into a sitting position. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and turns to face Fulla.

“You’re…not Baldur,” he says, squinting.

Fulla laughs and shakes her head. “Not the last time I checked.”

“Last night he said –”

“I know what he said – we all know what Odin asked him to do – but there is no way I will allow him to train you before you have had a chance to eat.” Fulla stands and offers Atreus her hand. He takes it, and she helps him out of the bed and to his feet. He’s tangled up in the furs from his bed, thanks to his fitful tossing and turning all night. After the pair untangle him and toss the furs back onto the bed, they move over to the table.

“Do you mind if I eat with you?” Fulla asks, pulling out one of the chairs.

“I don’t mind,” Atreus replies, sitting in his own chair. Fulla offers a grateful smile and reaches out to take a piece of bread. She drizzles over honey before taking a bite. Atreus regards her curiously before mimicking the action.

“Have you never eaten honey before?” Fulla asks, giggling into her hand as she sees Atreus’ face light up. He shakes his head and takes another bite, which only causes Fulla to laugh more.

Atreus manages to eat his fill before the doors are thrown open and Baldur strides in.

“Ready yet?” he asks, hands on his hips. Atreus looks between him and Fulla before nodding and rising from the chair. Baldur nods his head towards the small table on the other side of the room. “Grab your weapons. You’re gonna need them.”

While Atreus hurries to follow Baldur’s orders, Fulla rises from her place and walks to the door. She stops beside Baldur and growls into his ear, “If anything happens to him you will be glad you cannot feel pain.” Baldur’s lips twist into a sneer and he glares at her from the corner of his eye, but Fulla ignores him in favour of turning back to Atreus and calling, “Good luck today. I’ll be here this evening to guide you back to the Great Hall.”

“Thank you,” Atreus replies, turning to face her with a smile.

Fulla and Baldur share a brief look before she raises her chin and walks out of the room. The second she leaves, the air seems to turn heavy, and the warm, comforting aura she radiated is replaced with Baldur’s cold, imposing one. Atreus swallows thickly and walks over to Baldur, who holds the door for him.

“This way,” he says curtly, striding past Atreus. Unlike Fulla he doesn’t match the boy’s pace but continues ahead at his own, forcing Atreus to almost have to run to keep up with him. Baldur leads him in the opposite direction of the Great Hall, through corridors and passageways decorated with carvings and golden metal-work.

After roughly ten minutes of walking, Atreus begins to suspect Baldur is leading him in circles to stop him from memorising the path through the palace. Another ten minutes later and he is sure of it.

Finally they step out of the palace, and Atreus is momentarily blinded by the bright light. When he can see again, he finds that Baldur has continued along the path without him. Atreus runs down the stairs carved into the lush, green hills around the palace and almost runs into Baldur in his haste to catch him.

“Do try to keep up,” Baldur says, but there’s a hint of humour in his annoyance. Atreus ducks his head and continues walking, but he notices it’s a tad easier to keep pace with Baldur now.

Baldur leads Atreus down the path to Asgard’s Temple. He pushes one of the doors to the Travel Room open and holds it while Atreus steps inside. Once the boy is in, Baldur allows the door to slam shut behind him and walks over to the centre of the room, pulling a Bifröst crystal from his belt as he does. He locks it into place and slams the edge of the altar to start the realm travel.

“Where are we going?” Atreus asks, tugging nervously at the strap of his quiver.

“You’ll see,” Baldur replies, casting a glance at Atreus from the corner of his eye.

The branches around them twist as the room moves, and the light changes to a bright, searing red as the Muspelheim rune lights up. A moment later the branches stretch out into a bridge, and Baldur crosses it before walking towards the door. Atreus hurries after him.

Baldur continues to the main doors of the Temple. He throws the doors wide open, and Atreus is immediately hit by the burning fumes and the smell of brimstone. He momentarily chokes on the acrid smell before recovering from the sudden shock to his senses.

“You okay, kid?” Baldur asks. Atreus can almost trick himself into thinking he heard concern in the god’s voice.

“’m fine. Just wasn’t expecting it.”

Baldur nods and continues walking. They reach a small, vertical incline with the same golden markings Atreus and his father find almost everywhere they go. Atreus traces his fingers over the groove running down the incline, studying it.

“You can climb?” Baldur asks.

“I…uh, father usually does all the climbing. But I can.”

Baldur nods towards the incline. “Go on.”

Atreus digs his fingers into the crevices in the rock and pushes off with his feet. He cannot reach as far as his father can, and so it’s harder for him to climb, considering Kratos even needs to jump occasionally to reach the next groove. But he manages to climb to the top of the incline and pull himself up onto the ridge above.

Baldur hauls himself up a moment later, and strides on past Atreus, who jumps quickly to his feet. He stands still for a moment, screwing his eyes shut in concentration.

“Do you – do you hear that?”

Baldur stops and looks at Atreus over his shoulder. “Hear what?”

“Sometimes I hear…voices. When father and I went to Alfheim, I could hear the elves. Sometimes I can talk to animals, or at least feel what they’re thinking. I’m good at reading people, too. And I can hear…” Atreus breaks off into a run, and Baldur hurries to follow him.

Atreus rounds a bend and runs through a gate into a clearing. He comes to a stop in front of a giant sword, driven deep into the rocky ground.

“It’s a sword,” Atreus says, stunned. He walks over and presses his palm to the sword’s surface. He listens for a moment before looking at Baldur over his shoulder. “It’s asking if I’m… ready to train?”

Baldur nods and steps away, folding his arms. “Show me what you can do.”

Atreus nods, and gives the sword an affirmation. The second he does, it vanishes into fractals of light and a swarm of monsters emerge from the ground.

Atreus doesn’t expect one of the monsters to hurl a ball of fire at him. He supposes he should – he’s in the fire realm, after all – but still it catches him off guard. He manages to dodge, but not enough that the fireball completely misses him, and he gives a sharp cry as the skin of his left forearm burns.

“Pay attention!” Baldur calls, folding his arms over his chest.

Atreus looks at the god from the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to the approaching monsters. One charges forwards, and in a second Atreus has his bow out and an arrow fitted. It hits its mark, right between the draugr’s eyes, and the monster’s legs give out under it. As it crashes to the ground, Atreus turns and fits another arrow, sending it into the chest of another approaching draugr.

The second the draugr falls, another is there to take its place. The new threat is more heavily armoured and much faster than the first, and Atreus has to leap aside to dodge it. He rolls a few metres away and pushes himself up into a crouch, only to feel arms wrap around him from behind. He’s hauled up into the air, kicking and shouting, and his bow falls useless to the ground.

“Baldur –!”

“You’re on your own, kid!”

Atreus gives a sharp cry as long, cracked nails dig into his flesh, drawing blood. He writhes against the draugr, and his hand finds the hilt of his knife. With a loud cry he takes hold of it and drives it back into the draugr’s neck, just as he did with the reaver that grabbed him when he and his father first left their home. The draugr drops him and Atreus springs away from it.

The same, heavily armoured draugr from before comes running, and Atreus turns in to its attack, bracing himself and allowing it to run itself hilt-deep on his knife. The armour breaks around his blade, splintering in to the draugr’s chest and eliciting pained roars. Atreus pulls his knife out and stabs it into the draugr’s skull, wincing at the crack of bone.

Four down, Atreus tells himself as the draugr crumbles. Eleven to go.

Two more draugr come running at him from opposite directions. The one on his left wields a sword, and the one on his right is empty-handed. Atreus makes a split second decision, and throws up his right hand with a cry of, “ _St_ _ǫ_ _ð_ _va!”_ The empty-handed draugr stops less than a metre from Atreus, and the boy leaps out of the way as the draugr to his left swings its sword down. It cuts cleanly through the frozen draugr, cleaving it neatly in two.

Atreus releases his grip on the draugr and the two halves hit the ground before crumbling into dust. The draugr wielding the sword turns on Atreus and raises it again, and Atreus gives a shout as the weapon comes down at him.

“ _Skjöldr_!” he cries, the word bubbling up from some deep and unknown part of himself, as he raises his arms above his head.

Atreus feels the pressure of the sword slam against his arm, but he does not feel the bite of the blade in his flesh. He looks up, to find a rippling, translucent golden shield on his wrist.

The draugr raises the sword again, lifting it high with both hands, and Atreus releases the magic forming the shield. He drives his knife up into the draugr’s exposed chest with a cry of, “ _Sverð!_ ” The same magic flows through his hand into his knife, and then that same translucent gold bursts out of the knife, taking the shape of a sword around the small blade. Atreus pushes more magic into his knife and the golden blade bursts from the back of the draugr. It gives a shaky, screeching groan and breaks into dust around Atreus’ sword.

Atreus releases his hold on the magic and draws it back into himself. The rippling gold drains away from his blade, leaving it a regular knife again.

A burst of fire slams into the boy’s shoulder and he cries out in pain, sinking to one knee. Right, he thinks as he pulls himself to his feet, probably should have dealt with those draugr first. He makes a note for the future.

Atreus’ bow is still lying where he dropped it, so he runs to it. A draugr makes a swing at him and he throws himself down, sliding under its arm and grabbing his bow on the way past. He fits an arrow and fires, watching it sink deep into the skull of one of the draugr hurling fireballs. He repeats the action with the second one, corners of his mouth rising as it falls.

Eight down, now. Seven left.

Another heavily armoured draugr comes running, a second hot on its heels. Atreus aims at the closest one and lets the arrow fly with a murmur of, “ _Galti atras_.” A stampede of translucent gold boars charges from his runic summon, crashing through the two draugr. The one the arrow hit falls and does not get up, but the second one keeps shambling along. Atreus looses an arrow into its skull and it falls.

A draugr slams into his back, causing Atreus to double over. He pulls another arrow from his quiver and drives it back into the draugr. The shaft snaps when he tries to pull it from the creature, and he stabs the broken wood into the draugr’s eye. It writhes about and rakes its nails across Atreus’ flesh, cutting jagged lines through his skin. Atreus tries to grab his knife, but the blood running down his arms makes his hands slick and stops him from getting a grip.

Atreus throws his head back, hard, slamming his skull into the draugr’s face. He connects with enough force that he’s momentarily seeing spots, but it’s worth it when he feels the draugr’s grip loosen enough that he can throw it off him. Atreus wipes his hands on his pants and again grabs his knife. He drives it into the stunned draugr’s throat and slices across, slitting the skin cleanly. Atreus pulls his knife out and turns to the remaining four draugr.

“Well?” he pants, wiping at his forehead and smearing blood across it as he does. “What’re you waiting for?”

Two of the draugr surge forwards and Atreus meets them head-on with a roar. He swings around onto the back of one, strangling it with his bow. While it scrabbles at its throat, Atreus yanks hard to the side, turning it so it’s facing the one that had run up with it. He then leaps up, pulling his bow away and kicking off the draugr’s back. It falls forwards, pinning the second draugr beneath it. Before either of them have a chance to climb up, Atreus hurls his knife at them and shouts, “ _Sverð_!” The golden magic extends from the hilt, forming around the blade, so that a shimmering sword drives deep into the two draugr.

Atreus lands behind them and runs past, straight at one of the two remaining draugr. He looses a flurry of arrows into its body and keeps going, ignoring the thump of the body behind him. The final draugr runs to meet him, and the sudden motion catches Atreus off guard. The pair collide and go rolling across the hard ground. Atreus’ bow falls from his grip again.

When they come to a stop, the draugr is pinning Atreus to the ground. He throws his hands up and catches its shoulders, holding the snapping jaws away from his face. There’s nothing he can do – both his weapons are out of his reach, and he has no hope of throwing the draugr off him.

A word bubbles up to him, from some ancient, secret part of himself. Atreus tightens his grip on the draugr’s shoulders, digging his nails into its flesh. His face contorts into a sneer and he feels the word – backed by thousands of voices – rise in his throat.

“ _Týna_ ,” he hisses, and the word burns his lips and his hands. Atreus screws his eyes shut and roars in pain, but somehow his cries are drowned out by those of the draugr. Atreus doesn’t see it die, but he can feel the pain it feels, radiating out like the light of the sun. When it turns to dust beneath his hands, Atreus drops his arms and screams again – a scream of pain – of his pain, the draugr’s pain, _his people’s_ pain.

Atreus isn’t sure how long he screams for, or long he spends afterwards lying on the ground trying to feel anything other than the burning of his hands and lips. He thinks maybe he passes out for a moment, but he’s not entirely sure. When the pain finally dies away enough for him to just open his eyes, it’s to the sight of Baldur crouching beside him.

The god is cleaning Atreus’ knife off on his pant leg. Atreus can see beside him a pile of arrows, all retrieved from the draugr after they turned to dust. He tries to speak, but the mere action of even parting his lips sends searing spears of pain through them. He lets out a faint, throaty whimper, causing Baldur to turn towards him.

“So you are alive,” the god says, smirking. There’s humour in his voice, but it does little to set Atreus’ mind at ease. “That was some stunt you pulled, kid. I’m impressed.”

Knowing he won’t be going anywhere any time soon, Atreus closes his eyes and exhales slowly. The passing of air over his lips is like a thousand tiny pinpricks.

What happened to him? He was not alone when he uttered the word that killed the draugr. He had felt other lives within him when he’d spoken – hundreds, _thousands_ , of other voices crying out with him.

And that spell. _That power_. Raw, primal energy. Energy stronger than the gods.

Atreus opens his eyes again and looks back at Baldur. The god has set his knife down and is staring off into the distance. Atreus is thankful that he has not forced him to move – he doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to.

He knows there’s no chance of the pain ending any time soon, and he knows Baldur will inevitably grow bored and demand he get up. There’s only one thing he can think to do.

Atreus forces his lips to form the word, “ _Deyfa_ ,” and his body begins to glow with the same soft, golden light. After a few minutes the pain has leeched away, and Atreus pushes himself slowly upright.

“You’re up faster than I thought you’d be,” Baldur says, cocking his head. “Guessed we’d be here a few more hours, at least.”

“I numbed it,” Atreus murmurs. His throat is raw from his screams, and even though he can no longer feel it, it makes his words come out raspy. He’d probably be tired, too, if only he could feel it.

He can’t feel tired.

Atreus’ eyes widen slightly as Baldur pushes himself to his feet. He can’t feel anything. He puts his hands flat on the ground and shakily stands, and he can’t feel the ground under his palms or the heat of the realm. _He can’t feel anything_.

Baldur bends down to pick up the pile of arrows and Atreus’ knife. He puts the arrows back in the quiver and slips the knife back into Atreus’ belt before asking, “You ready to go back to Asgard?”

And Atreus can’t answer him because he’s still caught on the fact that he _can’t feel anything at all_ , and this is what it’s like for Baldur _all the time_.

Baldur leans sideways slightly so he can catch Atreus’ gaze. “You okay, kid? Don’t you go dying on me, not after all that.”

Atreus blinks a few times before he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go ho–”

He almost said _home_.

“I’m ready to go back.”

Baldur nods and starts back the way they came, towards the temple. When they reach the vertical incline, Baldur goes down first and allows Atreus to jump down to him. He catches him, albeit a little roughly, and they continue back to the temple.

After Baldur locks the Bifröst crystal into place, Atreus realises his sense of _feeling_ is coming back slowly. He can feel the weight of the day hanging heavy over him, and suddenly he’s so ridiculously tired that he almost keels over on the spot.

When they arrive back in Asgard, Atreus trails Baldur, who is mercifully walking slower than he was earlier that morning. They make it to the main pathway leading to the palace before they’re stopped by a sharp, furious shout of, “ _BALDUR!_ ”

The god pulls a face and turns around. Atreus follows his gaze and sees Fulla, face a mask of rage, storming across the grass towards them. She drops into a crouch beside Atreus and cups his face gently, expression turning to one of concern.

“Are you alright?” she asks, looking over the cuts and burns on his arms and shoulders. “What happened?”

“He’s _fine_.”

“I wasn’t asking _you_ ,” Fulla snaps, before turning back to Atreus. “Come on, I’ll take you back to your room.”

Fulla draws Atreus closer to herself and scoops him up into her arms. He closes his eyes and leans against her, sighing softly.

“He can walk,” Baldur says, folding his arms.

“He’s about to pass out, Baldur. I’m sorry for showing a little care.”

Fulla casts Baldur a glare from the corner of her eye before following the path up to the palace. Just as Atreus suspected that morning, there was a much more direct route from the front door to his room, and they arrive in a fraction of the time it took him and Baldur to leave that morning.

Atreus is set down on his bed, and Fulla moves to the large table against the wall. Some time while he was out, someone brought clothes to his room – he can see his old clothes, the ones he was wearing when he was brought to Asgard, as well as a few other sets. He can make out a couple of belts, too, and the glint of cloak pins beside them. Fulla lifts a simple cotton shirt and pants and brings them back to the bed.

“Can you get changed? We should get you out of those bloody clothes.”

Atreus nods, and while he changes, Fulla goes to get water and a cloth. By the time she returns, Atreus can again feel the prickling of his wounds and the heat of his skin.

“I’m sorry the water isn’t warm,” Fulla says, crouching beside the bed. Atreus doesn’t mind – it’s actually relieving to feel the chill against the overlying heat of Muspelheim.

Fulla first wipes all the blood from his arms and face before tending to the wounds. She makes sure to thoroughly clean the scratches, especially after learning they were made by fingernails and not knives. When she reaches the burns, she wipes them over with the damp cloth before spreading a cool, green balm over them. Instantly the heat draws out of them, and Atreus almost cries out of relief.

“Your lips,” Fulla says, squinting to look at them. “They look…” She leans back, then looks down and takes Atreus’ hands. She studies his palms, then looks back up at his mouth.

Atreus looks down at his hands and his eyes widen a touch. They look as though they were struck by lightning – faint, shaky white lines branch out from the centres of his palms, with smaller branches coming off at random intervals, and smaller branches again coming off those. He can only assume his lips look the same. Somehow he knows these marks will never heal.

Fulla traces her fingers over the lines on one of his palms, eyebrows furrowing in confusion when she finds that the marks do not feel like scar tissue, but are just the same as the skin around them.

“What did this?” she asks, voice a whisper.

“Magic.”

“Seidr?”

“Mine.”

Fulla’s head snaps up in shock and she goes to question Atreus again, but the look on his face has her biting her tongue. He’s far too tired for any more questions. It was a wonder he stayed awake this long.

“Rest,” Fulla says, releasing his hand and standing up. “You need time to recover. I’ll come wake you when it’s time to eat.”

Atreus nods slowly and swings his legs back up onto the bed. He’s asleep almost instantly, and Fulla chuckles softly as she drapes a couple of furs over his small frame.

He looks so tiny, she thinks. So young. She cannot imagine the boy before her possessing so much power that his own magic burned him. She cannot imagine him knowing a spell so damned that the backlash would mark him.

 

Atreus dreams of his parents. It does not take him long to realise that his dream is a memory.

His parents sit together, across their home from him, speaking in hushed voices. He does not know what they are saying – he cannot hear their whispered words – but the looks on their faces tell him that whatever they speak of is important.

Occasionally they will turn towards him, then his mother will grip his father’s hands tightly and he will look back at her and she will whisper something and she will _look so serious_ , more serious than he has ever seen her.

He wonders if the secrets they’re discussing have to do with his blood.

His dreams change, but they feel the same – they carry the same weight as a memory, but Atreus knows they are not. The things he sees pass by in flashes.

He sees himself, over his own shoulder, aiming an arrow at his father.

He sees himself, standing outside Brok’s shop, holding his bloodied knife and standing over an indistinguishable body.

And he sees himself, looming over his father, who is pinned to the ground by a mass of vines.

Atreus sits bolt upright, a scream caught in his throat. His hands and lips burn, and when he looks down he sees the lines on his palms glowing a faint gold. The glow fades and Atreus falls backwards onto the bed, trying to calm his racing heart.

They were only dreams, he tells himself. But he knows better than that. They were not only dreams.

They were premonitions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooooo boy big things are happening. Are you prepared?  
> This chapter was so much fun to write (two Word pages worth of fight scene I hope you guys know how much I love you it's a lot). Some pretty big things are being set in motion here, I hope you're all ready.
> 
> Also if you were curious about what the marks on Atreus (and the scar on Kratos from his arrow) look like, I imagine them as looking like this lichtenberg scar: https://i.imgur.com/OwHiCoa.jpg 
> 
> Don't forget to leave your thoughts on this chapter and future chapters in the comments below!
> 
> Some translations of the spells Atreus uses:  
> Stǫðva - stop  
> Skjöldr - shield  
> Sverð - sword  
> Týna - perish  
> Deyfa - make numb; relieve (pain)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither Kratos nor Atreus were expecting that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I know I normally leave the notes to the end but I'd like to take a moment to say: there are going to be some questions in the note at the end of the chapter and it would be super helpful for me if you could answer them! I noticed a lot of the activity on this story kind of dropped and I want to make sure as many people as possible are enjoying it, so if you could take a couple of minutes to answer the questions - even if you don't normally speak in the comments or if you don't have an account and have to answer as a guest - it would be super helpful for me! Thanks!

Kratos has been travelling for days, barely resting and barely eating, so when he hears the hammering he forgivably thinks that he is hallucinating.

As it so happens, he isn’t.

Kratos lifts a fallen tree out of his way, only to almost drop it back on himself when he sees Sindri, happily tinkering away at a breastplate.

“What are you doing here?” Kratos asks, letting the tree fall behind him and walking towards the dwarf.

“Ah, you’re finally here! I was beginning to think you’d never find me.”

“You knew I would be here?”

“Eh, knew, guessed, used the realm between realms to find you then ran ahead to wait – aren’t they all really just the same thing?” The dwarf shrugs and returns to hammering at the breastplate.

Kratos stares down at Sindri for a moment before his mouth forms the questions, “Why did you seek me out?”

“Well, I heard about your plan to find Atreus – it is rather foolish if you ask me –”

“I did not.”

“– but I said I would do whatever I could to help you, and I intend to. So! I heard you were looking for Hnoss. And what did I do? Why, go out and find you a potential lead on her, of course!”

“You know where she is?”

“Not exactly. But, I know the types of things that draw her in, and I know where there’s a place nearby that would be very appealing to her.”

“Where?” Kratos’ voice is urgent.

Sindri steps out from behind his workbench and turns almost full circle before pointing out to Kratos’ left. “That way. About half a day’s walk.”

Kratos unhooks his axe and holds it out to Sindri. “What can you do for it?”

“Ah, going in well prepared! Let’s see, what can I…” He raises his hammer and taps the side of the axe. It momentarily glows a bright blue. “It’s not much – you’ve exhausted all the other resources and designs I could put towards it. But it should help you on your journey.”

Kratos nods and hooks the axe back into its place. He turns to face the direction Sindri pointed and starts walking.

 

“You are awfully quiet, head.”

“I assumed after the third time you told me to shut up that you really meant it.”

Kratos huffs through his nose and casts a glance down at Mimir. “Even I grow tired of the silence eventually.”

“What did you want me to talk about?”

“What do you know of Hnoss?”

“Of course. Hnoss! She’s a beautiful woman, and drawn naturally to lust and desire. She can feel it in the hearts of mortals much more strongly than she can in those of the gods, which is why many of the gods believe she came to Midgard after the peace was broken. No one is really sure just why she remained in Asgard during the peace. She would naturally spend much of her time on Midgard, but would always return to the other gods. I can’t for the life of me remember why…except, of course, for Heimdallr.”

“Heimdallr?”

“Indeed! She was only very young in godly standards when the peace was brokered, and because of that she had difficulty talking to the other gods. They were all so much older than her, and they all had their own, _much more important_ things to do – as though looking after a child were unimportant.

“So, she took to entertaining herself. She spent her time wandering Asgard and looking for ways to keep herself busy – and that was how she met Heimdallr. They were both lonely souls, and perhaps that was what bound them. Heimdallr became something of a brother to Hnoss – he taught her the mysteries and secrets of the universe, and he guarded over her unwaveringly. There was little he would not do for her, and she knew it – but at the same time, there was little she would not do for him.”

“And he taught her to find the Bifröst?”

“Aye! Once she began to grow into her godhood, she needed a way down to Midgard. The Travel Room wasn’t always available, so she one day came to Heimdallr and asked if he would teach her how to find the Bifröst while on Midgard. They had known each other for so long that he could not refuse her. So he taught her how to find it. She always came back to him, which was what he had been most afraid of. Heimdallr had feared that one day she would leave for good, and he would be alone again. But she always returned.”

“Then why has she not returned this time?”

“You forget, brother – Heimdallr is an Æsir. Hnoss is a Vanir.” Mimir sighs softly. “She was on Midgard when Freya called off her union with Odin. She could feel his fury all the way from Asgard, and she knew something was wrong. But when she tried to return…”

“Heimdallr stopped her.”

“Exactly. He told her the Vanir had been cast out of Asgard, and the peace between them was ended. She could never return, and the Bifröst was no longer hers to use. And, worst of all, they could no longer see each other. It destroyed both of them to have to leave the other, but they could no longer call the other a friend. Heimdallr told Hnoss if she ever tried to return he would be forced to strike her down – that this was her one and only warning, and that she should return to Vanaheim before the other Æsir found her. But she never went back to Vanaheim. She returned to Midgard, and has remained here since.”

Kratos is silent for a moment before saying, “Surely they must have known such a fate would befall them.”

“Show a little compassion, brother. They were each the other’s only friend – all they had was taken away from them by something out of their control. Surely you of all people know how painful that solitude is?”

“Yes,” Kratos’ voice is low, “I know. Very well.”

They both slip into an ever-so-slightly-awkward silence, which stretches out for the hours it takes Kratos to reach the settlement Sindri had pointed them towards. The land gave way rather suddenly into a pit, but the trees around it grew over the top, almost covering it from the sky. The people at the bottom of the pit seem to have made some sort of camp – small huts clustered together tightly, with the embers of a few small campfires littered between them. Every now and then Kratos will hear sounds he’s come to acquaint with only one activity, and it suddenly becomes very clear just what the camp beneath him is.

“They are _pornai_ ,” Kratos growls softly. Mimir’s eyebrows furrow at the unfamiliar Greek word.

“What?”

“Prostitutes.” Kratos starts walking around the edge of the drop off, eyes trained on the ground ahead of him. The trees still grow thickly, even at the sudden drop, and he often has to pick his way over roots and around thick trunks.

Kratos rounds a particularly large trunk to find, not five metres ahead of him, a beautiful young woman sitting perched on a boulder. The rock in question hangs almost entirely off the edge of the drop-off, held in place only by the massive roots ensnaring it and trapping it to the ground.

“This is all very not-allowed,” the woman says as Kratos approaches. She does not look up at him, but rather keeps her gaze trained on the book resting on her folded legs. Every so often she will scribble something into it.

“What is?”

“This.” She waves an arm out over the camp below, before finally looking up. Her eyes land on Kratos and her lips twist into a smile. “Ah, of course. You’re not from around here. How could you know?” She waves her hand over the book and it disappears. With her now empty hand she beckons Kratos closer. After studying him for a moment, her small smile splits into a massive grin. “And _Greek_! Týr told me all about what you Grecians get up to behind closed doors.”

“I assume you are Hnoss?”

“The one and only.” She leans back on the boulder, pressing her palms flat against the rough surface. “However did you find me?”

“I was told you were drawn to desire and lust. It would appear that that is correct.”

Hnoss closes her eyes and chuckles, the rich sound emanating from the back of her throat. “Correct, indeed.”

“And the illegality of it – does that attract you, too?”

“Everything is so much more fun when it’s not allowed.” Hnoss opens her eyes and turns her body towards Kratos. “But really, it’s the lust that drew me here. They’re so full of it, the tiny little mortals. The crave it. Lust after lust. And so many of them, all packed together – there’s so much desire down there. I can feel it radiating out, like a wave. And it feels –” She closes her eyes, sucks a deep breath in through her nose. When she looks back up at Kratos, her eyes are alight with a dangerous fire. “ _Powerful_.”

Kratos exhales slowly and stares down at Hnoss. “I was told you could help me.”

Hnoss’ lips split into a grin and she rolls her hips so that she’s crouching on the boulder. “I can definitely do that.”

“I need you to take me somewhere,” Kratos says, voice a growl. “I’m looking for the path to Asgard.”

Hnoss’ face falls and she straightens up. “Of course you are,” she mutters. She cocks her head, expression turning to one of displeasure. “How did I not notice before that _mother_ sent you?”

“Mother?” Kratos’ eyes widen before he connects the dots. His expression slips into a sneer and he growls out, “Head.”

“Oh, don’t get mad at him. It’s not his fault he didn’t know. No one does – except for me and mother, of course.”

Kratos gives a frustrated sigh. “Your kind are very good at wiping the memories of others.”

Hnoss lurches forwards, pushing herself up onto her knees so that her face hovers inches from Kratos’. “Your kind, too,” she replies, voice a whisper. “I can feel it radiating off of you, _god_.”

“Why didn’t Freya want anyone to know you were her child?”

Hnoss huffs and sits back on her haunches. “Think about it,” she drawls. “Freya is queen of the Vanir. My father, her husband, was king. They have beautiful little me, then he fucks off to somewhere even Mother cannot find him – and believe me, she tried. She loved him more than life itself, and he just left her alone to raise me. She grieved so madly that she cried tears of gold, and still she was alone. Then talk of peace came on the horizon, but she couldn’t let anyone know she was married else Odin would refuse her hand. So she made everyone forget about dear old daddy. Only problem was she still had a child, and the only thing worse than being married to an absentee father was being a whore. No one was allowed to remember I was ever her daughter, except for some reason she allowed me to keep the knowledge. Perhaps she thought it would bring me comfort – that I would be happy to know she had sacrificed so much. I wish only that she had wiped my memories. I would rather have grown up without any parents than with one who clearly did not want me.”

Hnoss’ face twists into a furious sneer. “Then she goes and fucks Odin, and she has the perfect son! Her _darling boy_! Light of her life! What about me, huh? I was here first – I was abandoned and left alone, while she grants him immortality! She’d die for him, not that he deserves it, scum that he is.”

Kratos exhales slowly through his nose before asking, “Are you finished?”

Hnoss snaps her head up to look at him, eyes wide and furious. “What?”

“Are you finished?”

“How dare you –”

“I came here seeking your help because _my son_ was taken from me by Baldur.” At the mention of his name, Hnoss visibly tenses. “If you care at all about what your mother did to you, you will help me prevent it from happening to Atreus.”

Hnoss stares at Kratos for a moment before she leans forwards. She moves to the edge of the boulder and leans up, meeting his gaze. “I’ll help you,” she says, voice a whisper. “I’ll take you to the Bifröst.”

 

* * *

 

Atreus has lost track of just how long he’s been in Asgard, but he knows he’s been to several weeks’ worth of feasts in the Great Hall – and quite a few in Asgard’s other realms, hosted by the other gods.

He trains with Baldur almost every day. On occasion, the God will be busy – out tracking for his father or tending to his own issues. On those days Atreus will usually wait in his room for Fulla to collect him of an evening.

Atreus no longer needs Fulla’s guidance to navigate the palace, but he’s always glad of her company. She’s the kindest of all the gods he’s spoken to – with Bragi a close second – and she does a fantastic job of keeping Atreus away from Odin and his sons.

Today, though, Atreus decides he’s sick of staying cooped up in his room – especially when the words of his people have been bubbling up to him all morning. _Change your skin_ , they tell him, though he has no idea what it means. Since Baldur is off running errands for his father, Atreus decides it’s the perfect time to find out.

No one gives him questioning glances when they see him anymore. For the first week or so he was an unfamiliar face, regarded with curiosity and unease. Now, though, he is looked upon with recognition and awe. It’s no secret to anyone in Asgard that the scars marking his skin are from his victories in Muspelheim – and it’s no secret that the marks on his hands and lips are indications of his strength and abilities. The spell so damned it marked him – the spell so powerful it could have killed him. But he survived its backlash.

Atreus shrugs off his fur half coat as he takes a seat on the grass outside the palace. He folds his legs and rests his hands in his lap, closing his eyes and calming his breathing. In the stillness of his mind the words return: _change your skin_.

Atreus focusses on the words, on the way they itch under his skin. The feeling circulates with each breath, moving further through his body. His fingers twitch with the heated magic. It drums in the back of his mind, a constant rhythm.

“Fancy seeing you out here.”

The voice makes Atreus’ blood run cold, and the warmth of the magic slips away. Atreus looks up, eyes landing on the bulk of a man before him. He bows his head.

“Thor,” he acknowledges, returning his gaze to the man’s face.

“Mind if I sit?” the god asks, dropping to the ground before Atreus can even consider answering. “Now, I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while. Funnily enough, you always seem to run off before I get a chance to.”

“How strange,” Atreus replies curtly.

“Strange indeed. But it would seem we both have some free time now. Unless you have anywhere you need to be?”

A challenge. Atreus refuses to back down.

“Of course not.” He waves his hand dismissively. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“You killed my sons.” Ah. Straight to the point.

Atreus almost clams up, but manages to gather his words enough to reply, “Technically, I only killed one.”

“Modi, yes. But he told me you had a big part to play in helping your wretch of a father kill Magni, too. And, well, Magni was always the more competent of the two, so that alone is no mean feat.”

Atreus blinks in surprise – this wasn’t the way he expected this conversation to go.

“I must say, I’m impressed.”

Definitely not how he expected it to go.

“You are?”

“Oh, yes. I’m only disappointed I didn’t kill him myself. He failed to protect his brother, and then failed the easy task of killing your father in retaliation. Not only that, but he ran off whimpering like a coward.” Thor laughs, and it’s the sound of thunder right before a bolt of lightning strikes. “The little sod deserved every bruise I gave him. And even more so, he deserved a pitiful death at the hands of a child. I can only thank you.”

“Oh.” Atreus takes a moment to overcome his initial shock. His expression twists into a proud grin. “You’re welcome.”

Thor nods approvingly and stands. “I’m glad I could finally find the time to speak with you. I hope it won’t be such a task in the future.”

“Trust me,” Atreus says, lips curling into a grin. “It won’t be.”

As soon as Thor walks away, the voices return. Atreus closes his eyes again and returns his hands to his lap, allowing the itch to return. He regulates his breathing, feeling the itch crawl under his skin. Once he feels it curling at every inch of himself, Atreus begins to draw it in. It pulls at him – pulls at something inside him – and he feels his body shift. Atreus doesn’t open his eyes, just trusts the magic.

For a moment, he loses himself – loses his name and his mind.

Then he’s back, only his legs aren’t bending the right way and his fingers feel thick and he has an extra limb at his hips.

Atreus opens his eyes.

And he’s a wolf.

 _Change your skin_.

 

It took Atreus a little longer than it probably should have to turn himself back into a human. He had to draw on that same itch, had to let it fill every part of him – which is harder said than done when you’re not familiar in your own body.

But nevertheless, he found his way back into his human skin. And after a few minutes, he found his way out of it again.

And so he stayed, shifting his form between human and wolf, until he found himself too tired to continue changing his skin. Luckily enough, he was human when he dropped back into the grass, arms spread and chest heaving. His palms buzzed.

“You tired, kid?”

Atreus’ eyes snap open at the voice. A few hours ago he would have dreaded hearing it. Now, it just sends a surge of energy through him – enough that he can push himself up onto his knees, and then to his feet.

“Thought you’d had enough of me,” Atreus asks, cocking his head. He still has to look up to meet Modi’s gaze, but the god doesn’t seem so intimidating now.

“You think you’re so fantastic, ’cause Uncle brought you here. Well you ain’t all that. You’re nothing.”

“That’s funny, coming from you,” Atreus replies, laughing. “Remind me,” he says, resting his chin on his fingers in such a way that Modi can see the marks on his palms, “just who was it that killed you?”

“You little –” Modi snaps his hand out to grab Atreus, but the boy is faster – he snatches his wrist and sidesteps around Modi, pulling his arm up behind him. The action forces the god to his knees, and Atreus pulls his arm up so far that he feels it pop from the socket. Modi won’t allow him the satisfaction of a scream, but he can’t refrain from letting out a pitiful, pained groan.

“I killed you once,” Atreus hisses, leaning forwards so he’s speaking right into Modi’s ear. “I _will not_ hesitate to kill you again.”

Atreus releases Modi and the god falls forwards. He barely manages to catch himself with his non-dislocated arm before hitting the ground. He looks up at Atreus, expression a mixture of rage and agony.

“Run along,” Atreus mutters, voice dangerously low.

Modi hauls himself to his feet and stumbles back, glaring daggers at Atreus the whole time he runs away. Atreus gives a low, humourless chuckle after the god vanishes from sight. He bends to pick up his half coat, and is met with a clap on the back when he stands up. Atreus bristles at the unexpected contact.

The hand on his back slips away, and Atreus sees Baldur walk past. The god says nothing, but Atreus sees the faint upwards curl of his lips and the look in his eyes, and he recognises it immediately.

It’s pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So like I said at the start of the chapter I have a few questions for you guys, and these will just help to make this story the best it can be for everyone, so please take the time to answer them.  
> \- where in the world do you live?  
> \- what time are you most likely to check AO3, and for how long?  
> \- is an update once a day too much/too often? would you like more waiting time between chapters?  
> \- how likely are you to comment your thoughts/feelings/theories about a chapter/the whole story?  
> and a couple of questions about the content itself  
> \- considering time in Asgard in the story moves faster than in Midgard, which would you prefer: Atreus only ageing up a few months more than his father, or Atreus ageing up a few years more than his father?  
> \- I don't feel particularly confident that I have written Baldur in-character, and since he's going to be a major character in the story I want to make sure I write him properly - am I doing alright, and/or do you have any tips to improve?  
> \- is there anything in particular you would really love to see in this story? I'm writing this for you guys and I want to be sure you're enjoying it.
> 
> all that said and done, what are you guys' thoughts and feelings on the story so far? Are you enjoying it? And what do you think of Atreus' magic and abilities?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya does some soul-searching (literally) and Baldur is a little too good at being bad.

“What do you know about the Valkyries?”

Freya drops the clay bottle she’s holding, barely managing to catch it before it hits the ground.

“Wh–what?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at Kratos. She turns and sets the bottle down on the table beside her. Freya shakes her head as though to clear it and settles, attention turned to Kratos. “Did you find Hnoss?”

“I did. She did not teach me how to find the Bifröst, but she took me to it. She said so long as no one touches it, Odin will not realise it has been discovered.”

“Why didn’t you try to cross it, then?”

“Because you were right.”

Freya makes a strange, startled sound at the back of her throat. “I was _right_?”

“I will not be strong enough to fight Heimdallr, especially not with Atreus…absent. I’ll need to improve my skill before I will have a chance of defeating him. So for the time being…” Kratos sighs and looks away, and Freya can feel the weight of his words. “Atreus will have to wait a little longer.”

“You’re making the right choice,” Freya says gently.

Kratos takes a moment to collect himself. Then he turns his head back to face Freya. “After Atreus and I broke a piece off Thamur’s chisel, we found a hidden chamber beneath him. Inside was a Valkyrie, trapped in a physical form.”

Freya gasps, eyes widening. She takes a step back in shock. “No…”

“I doubt she will be the only one. To free them would kill two birds with one stone – save the Valkyries, and enhance my skill to fight Heimdallr. I want you to accompany me.”

“Me? Kratos, I cannot fight –”

“You do not need to.” Kratos steps forwards and holds out his hand. Freya holds out her own to take what he is offering, and he drops into her palm a resurrection stone. “You know the rune?”

“Yes.”

“Should the need arise, you will heal me and then move out of the line of fire.”

“I haven’t said yes!” Freya scrambles, voice slightly exasperated.

“But you will.”

And he’s right – she does say yes. But while it is mostly to help him, it is also, perhaps, to help herself, too.

 

Kratos has already broken the seal on the chamber, so it’s just a matter of making their way inside when they arrive. He leads Freya deeper into the chamber, and they stop just inside the arena where the Valkyrie waits.

“Oh,” Freya sighs as she sees her. “Oh, Gunnr.”

Kratos holds out a hand to stop her from moving forwards. “You have the stone?”

“Yes.”

“And a knife?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Stay out of the fight, and keep your eye on me.”

Kratos reaches back and draws his axe. He steps forwards, making his way around the side of the Valkyrie. Once he draws close enough, he sees the wings shift. The Valkyrie – Gunnr, Freya called her – snaps her wings open, and Kratos takes the chance to raise his axe and deliver an attack. Before Gunnr even has a chance to move, she is struck by a beam of ice.

As the runic attack draws to a close, Kratos swings his axe down and goes running. He throws the axe into her, allowing it to spin against her repeatedly before pulling it back. Immediately, Gunnr retaliates by slashing her wings against him. The fine feathers deal him a surprising amount of damage. Before he can fully recover from the shock, Gunnr brings her scythe down on his shoulder. Kratos cries out and throws his arm out, slicing his axe across Gunnr’s stomach. She comes at him again with the scythe but Kratos is ready this time, and he throws up his shield to block. The scythe bounces off and Gunnr steps back, momentarily pausing. Kratos takes the opportunity to hurl his axe again.

When he catches his axe again, Kratos leaps back. Gunnr moves away at the same time, beating her wings and flying backwards across the arena. She raises her staff and spins it in a circle, thick black smoke forming around it. Then she points it forwards and the smoke slams into Kratos. He throws his shield up against the smoke, and lowers it just as Gunnr appears before him and raises her scythe. Kratos blocks its downward swing and throws her arm back, then charges the Glaive Storm runic attack. His axe bites deep into Gunnr’s flesh and she reels backwards.

Even after the few weeks without his son, Kratos still instinctively goes to call for Atreus to fire. The shout sticks in his throat, stunning him, and Gunnr is able to catch him off guard. She swipes the tips of her wings across his chest, raking them through his flesh. Then she spins, scythe cutting deep. Kratos stumbles back, chest heaving. He calls on one the slot in his arm guards that carries a health rune, and feels a small burst of energy. Kratos raises the axe and fire another beam of ice, which freezes Gunnr in place. She cries out as the ice beam hits her torso, and as soon as it ends she beats her wings and spins her scythe through the air again. Gunnr releases the black smoke before flying forwards. Kratos tries to block her downwards strike, but he’s too slow.

Freya sees Kratos fall. She throws herself forwards instantly, hand gripping the resurrection stone tightly. She falls at Kratos’ side and scratches the rune hurriedly into the stone’s surface before driving her knife down onto it. As Kratos lurches beneath her, she looks up to see Gunnr raising her axe.

“Gunnr, stop!” Freya cries, throwing herself away. The Valkyrie falters, and it’s enough of a distraction for Kratos to unleash his Spartan Rage and slam into her. While Kratos hurls punches, Freya scrambles to her feet and runs back to the mouth of the arena. She watches as Kratos throws himself up and slams his fists into the ground, sending Gunnr stumbling backwards. Before the Valkyrie has a chance to right herself, Kratos draws his blades.

Kratos calls on the Prometheus Flame rune in his blades and throws out his weapons, watching as they dig into the ground on either side of Gunnr. The ground splits open beneath her, and a column of flame bursts forth from the earth. When the flames die down, Kratos launches himself forwards to meet Gunnr head-on. She raises her scythe and Kratos deflects it before slashing his blades across her torso. He keeps running, and Gunnr turns to face him. Kratos calls on the Cyclone of Chaos and charges her, spinning the Blades seemingly unendingly.

Freya can only watch on as Kratos forces Gunnr to her knees and tears her beautiful wings from her back.

By the time she reaches him, a ghostly figure is floating above Gunnr’s body.

“Thank you,” Gunnr’s spirit tells him. She bows her head, and when she lifts it, her gaze falls on Freya. “My queen!” Gunnr gasps, bowing to Freya.

“Queen?” Kratos turns his head towards her.

“I was the queen of the Valkyries before I married Odin. He stole my wings, and with them, my warrior’s spirit,” Freya informs, voice low.

Gunnr holds out her hand and Freya steps forwards, allowing the Valkyrie to press two fingers to her temple. “I give what I can,” Gunnr murmurs softly, and Freya gasps as she feels some of the Valkyrie’s spirit flow into her.

“Gunnr –”

“You must find my sisters. I fear they have suffered the same fate as me. The realms are out of balance – I must go to Helheim and attempt to fix the damage caused. Take my helm.” While Kratos lifts it from her body, she turns to Freya. “My sisters will do what they can to restore your spirit, my queen. I pray that you will regain your wings.”

“Go with my blessings,” Freya murmurs, and Gunnr offers a saddened smile. Then she beats her wings, and her spirit vanishes.

Once she is gone, Kratos begins to gather the resources that were dropped when he killed her corporeal form. Freya stands still, looking down at the Valkyrie’s body. She walks over to one of the discarded wings. Its feathers are bloodied. Freya crouches to brush her fingers over them.

“We will free the others,” Kratos says, his voice low. Freya looks over her shoulder at him. “That is a promise.”

Freya smiles faintly, and rises to her full height. She begins walking out of the arena, and Kratos follows.

“Now where?” she asks after a moment.

“I need to buy another resurrection stone from the dwarf. Then we will find the remaining Valkyries.”

 

It takes Kratos far too long to find the other Valkyries. Especially because he does not realise only four of them reside in Midgard. When they found Kara in the cave system under Freya’s house, the god – after overcoming her initial shock of finding one of her warriors trapped so close to her own home – informed Kratos that she would summon powerful allies into their fight. Kratos determined that he was not ready to fight her alone. Freya had almost worked up enough of her spirit to begin aiding him in battle, so he made the decision to search for and defeat the other four Valkyries.

It took weeks to discover that they were split across four other realms.

When Kratos learns that much, he destroys the land around him in a bought of rage. Freya can only watch on as the ground cracks beneath him and rocks come tumbling down from the cliffs around them.

Weeks, he has wasted, searching for Valkyries that he cannot even reach. Weeks he has spent trying to find his son, without getting any closer.

When Kratos returns to the face Kara, he utterly destroys her.

 

* * *

 

 

Atreus slams hard into Baldur, shoulder locked under the god’s chin. Baldur’s arm is around his waist, and for a moment it’s a grapple of sheer strength as each one tries to push the other off him. Then Baldur throws his body sideways and they both go crashing to the ground. Atreus manages to twist out of Baldur’s hold and spring away from the god.

Both gods crouch, staring at the other, then Atreus surges forwards. He wraps his arms around Baldur’s waist and slams into him, sending the older man flying backwards. They hit the ground and Atreus throws himself off Baldur, who rolls to the edge of the ground and barely manages to catch himself from falling into broiling lava.

“You trying to kill me?” Baldur asks, pushing himself to his feet.

“Just might be,” Atreus replies, smirking, as he wipes a line of sweat from his brow.

Baldur rushes the boy, fists flying, and Atreus catches his hands. The force sends him skidding backwards and he digs his feet into the ground. He releases one of Baldur’s arms and spins the other around behind him, but the older god bends at the hip and throws Atreus off his back. Atreus gives a grunt as he hits the ground and rolls. Baldur comes running, and once he gets close enough, Atreus sweeps his feet out from under him.

Baldur hits the ground hard and Atreus is on him instantly, knife pressing into the god’s neck. He looks down at Baldur, chest heaving and eyes wide with exhilaration, before he sits up and pulls the knife away. “I win.”

“Why didn’t you finish me off?”

Atreus rolls off Baldur and sits beside him, tucking his knife back into hi belt. “I get bored waiting for you to come back to life. Especially when I crush your skull – it takes so long to heal.”

Baldur scoffs, lips twisted into a grin. “I’d like to see you do better.”

“Yeah, right. Your curse keeps you alive, mine almost killed me.” Atreus pulls a water skin from his belt and takes a long drag. He tips his head back and sighs, before hooking the skin back to his belt.

“So, you want to go again? Since you couldn’t be bothered to finish the job.”

“No. I want to rest. That’s what I normally do while you recover. Let’s…let’s talk.”

“Hm. Okay, I’ll humour you. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know!” Atreus shrugs and leans back on his elbows. “Something – anything! We never talk.”

Baldur studies him for a moment, before his gaze goes to Atreus’ waist. He narrows his eyes.

“That cloth.”

Atreus looks over at the older god, expression puzzled. “What about it?”

“It’s foreign.” Baldur meets Atreus’ gaze. “Where did you get it?”

“It used to belong to my father.”

Baldur sighs, tutting softly. “Oh, Atreus – I thought we were past this.” He moves closer to the boy and reaches out to lift his chin. Atreus doesn’t pull away. “I thought you were one of us, now.”

“I –” Atreus falters. He looks down at the cloth.

 _He will_ not _abandon his father_.

“He gave it to me,” he says simply. “It was from his past. He did not want it anymore. It’s mine, and so I wear it.”

“Is that the _only_ reason you wear it?”

Baldur has seen right through him.

“You’re still hoping he’ll come for you.”

Atreus screws his eyes shut and looks away. Baldur drops his hand.

“How long has it been, Atreus? Surely you know he is not coming for you. Surely you know where you belong.”

“I know!” Atreus snaps, turning back to face Baldur. “I know. I just…” He gives a frustrated groan.

Baldur is silent for a moment, as though choosing his next words carefully. “Atreus,” he says finally, “do you know what happened after Modi tried to kill your father?”

“No. I didn’t know I was a god at the time, so after I became enraged I collapsed from my sickness.”

“The sickness your father brought upon you.”

Resentment coils deep within Atreus.

“Did your father tell you what happened to the sky?”

“No.” Atreus looks up at Baldur in confusion. “What happened?”

“The sky split. Thunder broke and lighting struck and the clouds turned dark and bloody. And it was not Thor’s doing.”

“Then what –?”

“You. Your sickness. Your weakness. You almost died and it threw the world out of balance.”

Atreus stares at Baldur for a moment before he scoffs and looks away. “No,” he says, laughing softly. “No, that can’t be right.”

“You were not supposed to die that day. It should never have even been a possibility. If only you had known what you were, it never would have been.”

Atreus’ laughter dies away and he looks up at Baldur, stunned. “I…caused that?”

“Indeed. That is the power you wield, Atreus. Your place in the world is set, marked in stone – your future laid out before you. To die early would be to change the course of the future. The world – and your life – would never have been put in such jeopardy if your father had not lied to you.”

“How could he have known?” Atreus’ voice is a whisper.

“It does not matter whether or not he knew. That is not what is important. What is, is the fact that he withheld your birth rite from you for his own reasons. Not only your godhood, but your Jötunn blood. And those two things combined are what makes you so powerful.”

Baldur reaches out to take Atreus’ hand. He shows him his palm, studying the marks splintering his skin. “Did anyone ever truly explain to you what this means?”

“No,” Atreus admits.

“You cast a damned spell – one so powerful that the backlash is known to kill. But you cast it and lived. It would have killed a lesser man, but not you.”

Atreus looks down at his hand, then back up at Baldur.

“This is what it means to be a god, Atreus,” he says, voice a fervent whisper. “This is what it means to be one of _us_.”

Baldur releases Atreus’ hand and the boy lets it drop back into his lap. He follows it down, gaze settling on the cloth around his waist.

When Atreus has sat silent and motionless for a few minutes, Baldur taps his shoulder lightly. “Hey,” he says as the boy looks up. “C’mon, take your mind off it. Go get our sword friend’s attention and we’ll do some partner work. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Atreus pushes himself to his feet and walks over to the sword. Baldur follows, and by the time he arrives, the draugr are already hauling themselves out of the ground.

They work as a team, Baldur rushing in to strike the draugr down with his fists while Atreus buries an arrow deep into any one that gets too close. Once upon a time he compared the way he worked with Baldur to the way he fought with his father. He hasn’t had that thought in a long time.

Nightmares begin to join the fight, and Atreus focusses his fire on them while Baldur takes out the remaining draugr. As soon as the last one falls, more rise to take their place, now accompanied by Dark Elves. Baldur seems almost to relish in beating them down.

Once Atreus has taken care of all the nightmares, he begins firing at the Dark Elves. After a moment of attacking from a distance, he hears Baldur bark out, “Go in close!”

Atreus fires one more shot – a lightning arrow that has electricity arcing between the elves as stuns them even as they writhe and cry out – and tucks his bow back over his shoulder. He runs in, calling out, “ _Sverð!_ ” as he does, so that when he reaches the dark elves he can cut them down with a rippling golden sword. Atreus whirls so he’s standing back-to-back with Baldur, as the still-alive Dark Elves surround them. Both gods lash out at the same time, Baldur with his fists and Atreus with his sword. The Dark Elves fall around them, and for a beat Atreus wonders if they’re even really trying.

Then there’s just one left, and Atreus shouts, “Mine!” before Baldur can touch it. He runs, leaping up off Baldur’s back as he pulls his bow off his shoulder. He leaps over the Dark Elf, flipping backwards as he fits an arrow and fires. The arrow goes in the back of the Elf’s skull and comes out right between its eyes. Atreus lands in a crouch, and when he straightens and turns around Baldur is nodding.

“Good, boy,” he says, and Atreus smiles.

“I thought so, too,” he replies, smirking.

The sword reappears, and Baldur casts a glance at it over his shoulder. “Again?” he asks, and Atreus nods.

“Again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to try to align my updating to the times when you guys are on the most but you're all kind of spread out so I think I'll keep updating at the time I was before (about 5.30 - 6.00 PM AEST). This chapter is also a little shorter and lower quality than the others because I needed to get this stuff out of the way for the next chapter. In all honesty now that I think about it I probably could have squashed them together but I'd rather keep them separate.  
> Everybody I'm just gonna say one thing: be prepared.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The level of faith in Kratos is inspiring.

“You’re really going to do it?”

Kratos looks down at Sindri, who is busy swapping the handle on Leviathan. He looks away, feeling no need to give the obvious answer.

“He is,” Mimir speaks up from where he hangs at Kratos’ hip. “He knows he’s buggered, but he’s going to do it anyway.”

“Quiet,” Kratos grumbles, lightly swatting at the head.

“Well you are, brother. You know what you’re up against – you even went and freed the Valkyries to train yourself. You know it won’t be a walk in the park.”

“That was you?” Sindri asks, looking up. Then he scoffs and turns his gaze back to the axe under his hands. “Who am I kidding – of course it was. Who else could it have been?”

Kratos huffs and draws his blades, dropping them onto the work bench. “Improve them when you are finished with the axe.”

Sindri throws a quick glance at them from the corner of his eye. “So,” he begins, leaning back to examine his work on the axe, “why didn’t you free all the Valkyries?”

“They’re not in Midgard,” Mimir speaks up for him. “He only went and threw half a fit when he found out. Surprised you couldn’t feel the ground breaking up from here.”

“I thought I told you to be quiet.”

“Well, you weren’t gonna tell him. I might as well.”

“And chance you’re interested in purchasing a head?” Kratos asks Sindri.

“Oh. Oh, no. No, I can barely stand seeing him on your hip. No offence, Mimir.”

Kratos cracks the faintest hint of a smile, then his expression slips back to neutral. Sindri taps at Leviathan a few more times before holding the axe out.

“Don’t worry about trying to keep it clean this time,” he says, voice lowering, as he turns his attention to the blades.

“Why is that?”

“I doubt you’ll even get a hit in.”

Kratos looks away and exhales slowly through his nose. “Your levels of faith are inspiring.”

“Listen, brother,” Mimir says, voice little more than a whisper. “We are not exaggerating Heimdallr’s might. And I know that deep down, you understand that. You’ve been listening to us. Why else would you wait to cross the Bifröst? To do this is suicide, brother. The level of faith we have in you _should_ be inspiring, for the mere fact that there is hope at all.”

“He’s right.” Sindri follows his comment with a loud clang of his hammer. “If there’s anyone who stands at least a chance of holding out against Heimdallr, it’s you.”

Kratos doesn’t miss the subtle hint in Sindri’s words – a chance of holding out, not a chance of defeating him.

“You know what you’re capable of, brother. You know what you’ve done in the past. But you know this is different.”

“Yes,” Kratos says, taking his newly improved blades from Sindri. He holds one up, turning it in his hand and looking at the gleam of the metal. As he tucks it away he says, “This time I am fighting for my child.”

The corners of Sindri’s lips twitch upwards for just a second. “For all the good that will do you.” He gives Kratos a curt wave and turns back into his shop. He calls over his shoulder, “Good luck.”

“You’ll need it,” Mimir grumbles. Kratos swats him away.

 

“For someone who lives in fear of her life, you are not particularly stealthy.” Kratos flicks his gaze to his right, where the person who has been following him for the past hour has finally stepped into line with him.

“Who says I was trying to be stealthy?” Freya asks, stepping out from behind the trees lining the path. She walks up beside Kratos and matches his step. “Perhaps I wanted you to know I was there.”

“For your own sake, I certainly hope so.”

Freya gives a small smile and turns her attention forwards. “So, you’re going ahead with it?”

“You know I am. He is my son, Freya. I cannot leave him.”

“Trust me, I know the feeling well.”

They walk in silence for a few more minutes before Freya sighs and catches Kratos’ arm. He stops walking and turns to face her.

“I will go with you.”

“No.”

“I can help you,” Freya insists. “I can fight again – you know I can.”

“Not enough. The Valkyries have not given you back enough spirit for you to be helpful.”

“I can hold Heimdallr down, then,” Freya says, holding out a hand to demonstrate. Thick vines curls up from the ground, tangling together beside them.

“No. Should something go wrong you will be unable to defend yourself.”

“I can fight enough to do that!”

Kratos stares down at her for a moment before sighing. “Show me.”

“What?”

“Prove to me that you can keep yourself safe if I fall.” He steps back, holds his hands out. “Fight me.”

Freya adopts a similar stance and tightens her jaw. She’s quick to make the first move, stepping forwards and swinging her fist around to catch Kratos’ arm. He dodges, lashes out with his own punch, and when it connects with her side Freya can tell he is holding back. He punches again, and Freya catches his fist. She aims higher this time, her own punch connecting with his nose. He barely seems to notice.

“You’re holding back,” Kratos says, pulling his fist from her grasp.

“I’m not.”

He huffs and draws his axe. “Prove it.”

Freya throws her hands up and cries, “ _Brenna loga_.” Flames spring forth from her fingers. By the time they hit Kratos, they’re no warmer than those of his Spartan Rage.

Kratos wastes no time in lunging forwards and swinging his axe. Freya draws her sword and blocks the downward swing with a grunt. She pushes back against the force of Kratos driving his weapon down, legs bowing under her.

“ _S–slyngva_ ,” she manages, through grit teeth. Kratos is thrown backwards, and Freya stands upright before charging at him. His shield opens up in time to block her attack, and she pulls her arm back knowing she has no chance of throwing it aside.

Kratos adjusts his stance and starts moving forwards. Freya points her sword at the ground and cries again, “ _Brenna loga_!” Flames burst forth in a line before her and she prepares herself to charge when they die down, but before they can even begin to cool Kratos steps through them. He throws his axe and Freya whirls out of the way, barely avoiding being cut into. Kratos recalls Leviathan and it spins around the other side of Freya, catching her off guard and leaving a shallow gash in her arm.

“Be careful!” she calls instinctively, pressing her hand over the wound and calling on her magic to heal it.

“Heimdallr won’t be.”

Freya huffs and straightens. She tightens her grip on her sword and raises it. Kratos sighs, giving her a look that almost seems bored. Freya waits for him to begin walking before surging forwards. Kratos raises his shield, but at the last minute Freya throws her sword to her left hand and drives it forwards. The blade slices through Kratos’ arm, but only finely – a barely-there cut that he can almost ignore.

Ducking under his arm, Freya raises her free hand and utters, “ _Greiða_.” The same thick vines grow up from the ground and entangle themselves around Kratos. Freya holds her sword out towards him and in his attempts to break free, Kratos drives his shoulder onto the blade. Freya tenses, limbs freezing against her will. Kratos notices, and the corner of his lips curls into a smirk.

“Go on,” he says, turning his head as much as he can towards Freya. “Prove that you can do it.”

Freya grits her teeth and tries to drive the sword down. Her hands begin to shake involuntarily, to the point where she drops the sword. Freya lets out a frustrated cry and throws her hands down, the vines falling away as she does. Kratos stands, returning his axe to its hold. He bends down to pick up Freya’s sword and holds it out to her. She snatches it away from him with muttered thanks.

“I told you that you were not ready.”

Freya sneers, finally snapping out, “I’m a warrior, Kratos!”

“No. You were a warrior, once. No longer.”

Her face falls as she looks up at him. Then she looks away, folding her hands across her chest and gripping her forearms tightly. “I know,” she says softly. “I know. I had just hoped…I had hoped it would be enough. I had hoped to be of some help to you.”

Kratos kneels in front of her. “You can help by healing the damage you have caused,” he says, voice not entirely unkind.

Freya lays her hands on his shoulder and begins murmuring healing spells. Kratos looks away, trying not to focus on the feeling of his muscle knitting itself back together.

“Why are you so intent on helping me?” he asks suddenly.

Freya is taken aback. The spell she’s murmuring dies on her lips and she looks down. “Because…we’re very alike. We’ve both lost people we care about. We’ve each lost a child.”

“We have each lost two,” Kratos replies, voice low.

“Two?” Freya trips over her words, her thoughts going in two different directions at once. She finally settles for, “She told you?”

“That is…one way of putting it. She somehow knew that you had sent me. She told me what you did.”

Freya lowers her hands and looks away for a moment. “And she is still resentful?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.” Freya nods and returns her hands to Kratos’ injury. “I would not expect her to have forgiven me. I know I would not.” She continues to murmur the spell, waiting for the wound to seal over before walking around Kratos. Freya kneels beside him and presses her hand over the cut on his arm.

“You…had another child?” she asks. When Kratos doesn’t respond, she resumes the healing. When she finishes murmuring the spell, she allows her hands to remain on his arm. Kratos looks up at her, but her attention is on the ground beneath them.

“We are…the same, you and I,” Freya says quietly. “Lost and alone, far from home.”

“I am not lost,” Kratos replies, but his voice is a breathless whisper.

Freya offers a sad smile. “Do not lie to yourself. It will do you no good. Perhaps you found yourself, in your wife and child. But now that Atreus is gone…”

Kratos closes his eyes and exhales slowly. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I will do everything I can to help you find yourself again,” Freya murmurs. “I’m sorry that I cannot face Heimdallr by your side. But I will be here waiting for you.”

Kratos looks up at her, and neither of them mention just how slim the odds of him returning are. They stay together silently for a moment, relishing in the contact and the company of someone else, someone who understands. Then Kratos sighs and pushes himself to his feet.

“Take care of him,” he says, removing Mimir from his belt and handing him over. Freya isn’t sure whether he is talking about Mimir or not.

“I will,” she promises, and her words carry enough weight that Kratos knows she understands.

They share a final moment of lingering silence, then Kratos turns and walks in the direction of the Bifröst.

 

“Why so sad?”

Kratos freezes, taken aback. He’s shocked that someone was actually able to sneak up on him. It takes him a moment to recognise the voice.

“I’m surprised to see you again.”

Hnoss jumps down from the branch she was crouching on and stands up in front of Kratos. “You’re sad because you didn’t expect to see me?” she teases, lips curled into a smirk.

“You know why.”

“You took so long to come back I was starting to think you never would. I almost gave up waiting for you.”

“Why were you waiting?”

Hnoss shrugs. She spins on her toes and begins walking towards the Bifröst. They’re so close, Kratos can almost see the spot where it touches the land. He walks after Hnoss, keeping pace easily.

“That is not an answer.”

“Well, I don’t know why I waited around. Perhaps because you’re the first person to have sought me out in so long. Perhaps because I thought you deserved to see one more friendly face before you go to fight Heimdallr. Or perhaps I just have nothing better to do.” She looks up at Kratos with a childish grin. “You don’t seem to oppose the company.”

“No, I do not.” Kratos looks down at the woman beside him, briefly meeting her gaze. Then he looks back up at the path ahead. “Do you have any advice for me?”

“Yeah – don’t fight Heimdallr.”

Kratos snorts, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth. “Any other advice?”

“Not really. I could suggest blinding him, but he probably already knows what you’re going to do, so that won’t be much help.”

“What do you mean when you say that? You’re the third person to tell me that Heimdallr knows my every move. How can he?”

“He’s blessed with foreknowledge. Or cursed, if you want to see it that way. So the second you decided to cross the Bifröst, he knew. He knows every move you will make. He knows why you want to cross the bridge, and it will not sway him.”

“You know him, once. Mimir told me of you. That you were forced to leave him. Surely he was once a good man.”

“He has always been a good man,” Hnoss replies, lips drawn in a straight line. “He is so much better than a man. But still, he has his job. He follows Odin’s orders, and I would not want him to do anything else. It was a risk for him to allow me to escape when the peace broke. If I show my face again, he will have to kill me, or else risk Odin’s wrath. I would rather never be able to see him again that to put him in that position.”

“I am sorry to have brought you to this point, then.”

“Don’t be. If anything, I needed the reminder. He is no longer my friend. For both of our sakes, he cannot be. As much as it hurts…it is for the best.” Hnoss stop walking when the path gives way to open ground. The grass beneath one side of the Bifröst is burned away – crisp, brown and lifeless. The strip of fire of the Bifröst blazes brightly.

“Remember what I told you?” Hnoss asks as they approach.

“The Bifröst is made of fire, water and air. Don’t touch the strip of fire, unless I want to be burned. The other two will support me. That was all?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Kratos begins to walk towards the Bifröst, when Hnoss catches his arm.

“Before you go, I must warn you. Time travels differently between the realms.”

“I am aware.”

“The time in Midgard…it flows slower than the time in Asgard.”

Kratos’ eye widen a touch. “How much slower?”

“That, I cannot tell you. Even when I was allowed on Asgard, I never kept track of the difference in time between the two realms. Jut be aware that time will have moved differently for him. He will have lost more time than you. And whatever they are doing to him” – and Kratos screws his eyes shut at the thought of them doing _anything_ to his son – “will have been going on for longer than you think. The boy you find will not be the same boy you remember.”

Kratos cannot stop himself from thinking, _What if there is no boy to find?_

“He will be there,” Hnoss says, as though reading his mind. She rests her hand lightly on Kratos’ arm. “You will find him. I have faith in you.”

Kratos opens his eyes and looks down at her, and gives a faint smile. “Thank you.”

“Can you –” Hnoss suddenly blurts, before pulling back and looking away.

“Can I…?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You would not have called out if it were nothing.”

Hnoss is silent for a moment, before she asks quietly, “Can you say hello to Heimdallr for me?”

Kratos’ face softens slightly. “Of course.”

Hnoss offers him a faint smile and steps back. “Best of luck.”

Kratos nods silently and turns towards the Bifröst. He steps onto the strip of air and begins the long, arduous walk across the bridge.

The walk is a long one, but Kratos is not even half of the way when the figure comes to meet him. Heimdallr – for there is no one else he can be – is pale as death, with long fair hair and eyes hardened by all the knowledge he bears. He is dressed in golden armour, and when he opens his mouth to speak, Kratos can make out golden teeth.

“You will go no further.”

“That is what everyone has told me so far.”

“You were foolish to come here.”

“But apparently you knew I would.”

Heimdallr nods. “I also know why you have come here. I know what you are searching for. But I cannot allow you into Asgard.” He exhales slowly. “I will give you the choice. You may go.” He knows it is useless – he knows Kratos has made his choice, and if there were ever the chance of him walking away then Heimdallr would have foreseen it. But still he makes the offer, if only out of hope.

“If you know why I am here, you will know that I am not leaving without my son.”

Heimdallr exhales slowly and draws the sword that hangs at his hip. “Then you will not be leaving.”

“I have slaughtered beings whose little fingernails are bigger than you are tall. You, of all people, should know that to be true. Do you think you can stop me?”

“I know I can.” Heimdallr squares his jaw. “Do you have anything else to say to me?”

Kratos lifts Leviathan and holds it at his side. “Hnoss says hello,” he says, voice thick.

There’s a moment of tense, saddened silence from Heimdallr. Then he raises his sword and says, “I know.”

 

* * *

 

Atreus takes a bite out of a crab apple and picks a seed out from the core. He flicks it out across the courtyard below, losing sight of it once it hits the ground. He sits on a wall, one leg dangling over the edge and kicking, the other drawn up. He rests his elbow on his knee, and his chin on his hand. Atreus digs another seed from the core and flicks it out into open air.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Atreus cries out in shock and almost falls off the wall. He manages to catch himself, and when he looks up to see just who startled him, he finds Fulla laughing to herself.

“I’m just eating,” he says, plastering on a face of pure innocence.

“Eating, yes, and making a mess in the courtyard for Gefjon’s maids to clean up.” Freya gathers her skirt and sits down on the wall beside him. It’s rather low on the palace side, but drops off suddenly on the far side to the courtyard below.

“It’s just a few seeds. Besides, they’ll never even know it was me.”

“Oh?” Fulla raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps they’ll have no proof, but I doubt there’s anyone else it could be. Who else spends their free time lounging about and eating crab apples?”

“Hey, I do other things!” Atreus leaps to defend himself, but the blush burning on his cheeks and the tips of his ears tells a rather different story.

“Really, I’m not surprised you choose to spend your free time relaxing. If Baldur were training me so relentlessly I would some time to myself, too.”

“Training with Baldur isn’t so bad. It’s actually sort of fun.”

“Still.” Fulla reaches out a hand and cups Atreus’ cheek. “You’re still a child. You should be allowed to be a child, not a warrior.”

“Can I not be both?”

Fulla studies him for a moment before smiling faintly. “It would seem you already are,” she replies, stroking her thumb lightly across his cheek. Atreus smiles and leans in to her touch. After a moment Fulla lowers her hand, and Atreus returns to leaning his chin on his palm.

“Why did you come find me today?” Atreus asks.

“Can I not come to see you?”

“Of course you can! It’s just, well, you stopped really coming to find me a while ago. I wondered if you didn’t want to see me anymore.”

“Oh, Atreus.” Fulla sighs softly and lifts his chin. “I always want to see you. I love talking to you. We’ve just both been so busy recently it’s been a little hard.”

Atreus gives a small smile and ducks his head slightly. “Okay,” he replies, looking up at Fulla through his eyelashes.

“Sorry to break up such a touching moment.” Fulla’s smile fades at the voice, and Atreus snaps his head up to look at Baldur. “I have a message for you, boy.”

“What is it?”

“Odin wants to speak with you at the meal tonight. Wear your nicest clothes.”

“Will that be all?” Fulla asks, cocking her head.

“Yes, that’s _all_ ,” Baldur replies, trying very hard to hide a sneer.

“Thank you,” Atreus says, looking between the two gods. “I’ll move over soon.”

Baldur nods and turns, walking away from the wall. Atreus takes another bite of his apple and chews thoughtfully before turning to Fulla.

“Where does he go?” he asks, swallowing the chunk of apple.

“When?”

“While we eat. Where does he go? He doesn’t need sleep, so I doubt he goes to his room. And he spends all his days training, so he doesn’t really need to train of a night. What does he do?”

“He thinks.”

“Thinks?”

“Yes. He thinks. About…well, we aren’t really sure. We talk about what he could be thinking of. Some of us say his past, but I think he’d rather forget a lot of it. Some of us say his invulnerability. He’s always searching for a way to stop it. To get back the feeling he lost.”

Atreus looks down at his palm, remembering the day he got the marks and the spell he cast on himself after. The total numbness. The utter lack of feeling.

“If I were him, I’d want feeling back, too.”

Fulla offers a sad smile.

“What do you think he thinks about?”

“Me?” Fulla considers it for a moment. “Mostly, I think he thinks about his mother.”

“His mother – Frigg, right?” he takes another bite.

“Frigg.” Fulla laughs softly, and her voice is sad. “That was what Odin called her. To everyone else, she was Freya.”

Atreus almost chokes on the chunk of apple in his mouth. He slaps at his chest, a little dramatically, and manages to swallow the fruit without choking. “ _Freya_?”

Fulla cannot help but chuckle at his reaction. “You did not know?”

“No!” Atreus looks down at the ground far below, shocked. “I…really didn’t. So Baldur is…Freya’s son?”

“Yes. And she’s the reason he can feel nothing. She tried to protect him, and instead doomed him. He has never forgiven her for it.”

“If I were him,” Atreus says softly, tracing his finger lightly over the marks on his hands, “I’d resent her, too.”

Fulla looks at him sadly, the turns away before he can see. “Come along,” she says, rising. “You should be getting ready. We’ll be meeting in the Great Hall soon.”

Atreus stands up and dusts himself off. He tosses his apple core into a nearby garden where it can rot back into the earth and starts to walk beside Fulla back towards the palace.

When he reaches his room, Atreus begins looking through the clothes folded neatly on his table. None of his clothes are overly _nice_ , but he finally settles on a long red tunic with golden trim and loose full-length cotton pants. He instinctively goes to tie his father’s waistcloth above his gold-studded leather belt, then stops, hands hovering behind him, the strips of cloth held tightly between his fingers.

_Why?_

Why does he keep putting it on? Why does he keep caring?

 _He will_ not _abandon his father_.

Atreus lifts the cloth up to his face and studies it. He holds in his hand his father’s past. His own past.

 _But his father abandoned_ him.

Face contorting into a mask of rage, Atreus throws the cloth aside and storms from his room.

 

* * *

 

Kratos probably should have paid more attention to the others when they told him he had no chance of beating Heimdallr. He can count on one hand the number of strikes he got in against the god, and he’s sure Heimdallr allowed every one.

He knew by heart every single one of Kratos’ attacks, even before he did. Even when Kratos changed his attack at the very last second, hoping to catch Heimdallr off guard, he was blocked and knocked aside. He never even stood a chance.

And now he’s exhausted – beaten down and barely even able to kneel before Heimdallr. The god stops right in front of Kratos and raises his chin with the tip of his sword.

“I told you this was foolish.”

“Oh, will you gloat now?

“No.” Heimdallr pulls his sword back, letting Kratos’ head fall forwards. “Now is not the time for gloating.”

Kratos hears the sound of Heimdallr’s sword being sheathed. He gasps out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding and looks up.

“Today is not your day to die.”

“Then why did you try so hard?” he replies, sneering.

“Because today is not your day to enter Asgard, either.” Heimdallr kneels before him. His mouth is drawn into a straight line and his eyes are cold. “There will come a day you cannot avoid – a day where you die, and the world around you is changed because of it. I cannot rip that future from you. But I could not allow you to enter Asgard. Not here, not now.” Heimdallr straightens and glares down at Kratos. “Do not try to find the Bifröst again. It will not end well for you.”

Kratos blinks, and he is back on the cleared patch of land before the base of the Bifröst. With no more need to hold himself upright, Kratos slumps forwards. He’s bruised and bloody and exhausted but alive, and that’s more than he was expecting. But his son is still out there, and he cannot allow himself to rest until he is found.

So, slowly and painfully, Kratos hauls himself to his feet. He grips Leviathan’s handle tightly and leans his weight on the axe, using it as a crutch. Then he begins, slowly, the walk back to the Lake of Nine.

 

* * *

 

 

Atreus has grown more comfortable speaking with the other gods at the table. While he tries to spend as much of his time as possible sitting beside Fulla, he will also move around to be near the other gods, especially when he is sharing a conversation with them.

It’s in the middle of one such conversation that he is interrupted by the doors of the Great Hall being thrown wide open. All the gods look up as Baldur strides in. He walks up to the elevated platform on which the gods’ table stands and bows, albeit a little half-heartedly, to Odin.

“Forgive me, mighty Allfather, for the interruption. I bring news from Heimdallr.” He straightens, meeting Odin’s gaze. “The Bifröst has been found, and should be moved as soon as possible.”

“Who found it?” Atreus cannot stop himself from asking.

Baldur shrugs. “Just some mortal who found himself in the right place at the right time.”

Atreus doesn’t know why he was even hoping anymore.

“Thank you, Baldur,” Odin says, nodding. “I will tend to the issue after we are finished here. But for now…” He beckons Baldur forwards. “Atreus, won’t you join me?”

Atreus blinks in surprise and throws a quick glance at Fulla, who nods. He stands and walks around the table, stopping by Odin’s side.

“How long have you been with us, boy?”

“I…I have not been keeping track. But it’s been a while.”

“Indeed. And still, there seems to be a gap between us. One we all must work to fill.” Odin lifts a horn, filled with mead, and offers it to Atreus. “Your first drink, as one of us.”

Atreus looks down at the horn, then back up at Odin. “I already have a family.”

“Do you?” Baldur asks, laying his hand on Atreus’ shoulder. The boy jumps slightly, not having realised the older god had walked up behind him. “A father who hid who you were from you? Denied you your birthright? Cursed you? Who will never want you – will never love you? And a dead mother who never told you the truth about herself?” Baldur tuts disapprovingly and leans down so he’s at eye level with Atreus. “Is that really what you call a family?”

Atreus looks at Baldur, and then down the table at the gods all watching the exchange. He knows each one by name, and they know him. They care for him. They want him.

“No,” he whispers, looking back at Baldur. “It’s not.”

Beneath his beard, Odin smiles, and again offers the horn of mead.

Atreus reaches out, takes it – and drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, probably: hell yeah Kratos and Heimdallr fight!  
> Me, dying on the inside: hnng timeskip  
> I'm sorry that I skipped the fight but it would be difficult for me two write, and would probably become rather repetitive and boring after a point since it would literally just be Heimdallr blocking every single one of Kratos' attacks and then beating him to a pulp. Hopefully the rest of the chapter makes up for it. And I'm sorry this chapter went up a few hours late! I kinda procrastinated a bit then went out this afternoon but I still wanted to get an update out for you guys because I really love writing this story, and I know you guys (hopefully) enjoy reading it!  
> And I dug a little more into Heimdallr's lore and?? That guy is crazy strong what is UP. He can literally hear and see grass grow and can teleport not only himself but also other people, hence Kratos just reappearing back at the start of the Bifrost.  
> Also Atreus has kinda completely given up on his father in favour of the other gods who saw that coming?? It was me I saw that coming.  
> Anyway make sure to leave your thoughts and feedback below!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discoveries are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait! AO3 wouldn't let me update last night and the site was still crashed when I went to sleep so it had to wait until this morning. The updating schedule should return to normal today. Thank you for your patience!

The door to Freya’s house crashes open and a bloodied Kratos stumbles in, dropping to his knee before the hearth and leaning the brunt of his weight on his axe.

“Kratos!” Freya gasps, practically throwing down the book she’s holding. She rushes to his side, dropping down beside him.

Kratos’ chest is heaving, eyes screwed shut. As Freya watches, the scratches and cuts along his arms begin to knit themselves together. Kratos gives a guttural groan.

“Stop, stop!” Freya cries, catching his shoulders. “Don’t try to heal yourself, you’ll just make things worse. Come on, let me help you.” She loops an arm around him, taking his weight. Leviathan falls to the floor as Kratos puts the brunt of his weight on Freya. She sets him down at the edge of the bed before rushing to the back door.

“Don’t let him heal himself,” she snaps at Mimir, as though he can actually stop Kratos if he tries. “I just need a few minutes.” She all but slams the door in her haste to be done.

“How did you survive?” Mimir asks after a moment of silence.

Kratos raises his head, and Mimir visibly winces. He’s never seen the god so utterly defeated before. “It wasn’t my day to die,” Kratos replies slowly, voice hoarse. “He let me go.”

Mimir is momentarily stunned into silence. Finally he asks, “Why would he do that?”

The glare Kratos throws his way is still as imposing as ever.

“He said my death will change the world. That he could not take that from me.” Kratos coughs into his hand, and when he lowers it there’s fresh blood in his palm and colouring his lips.

“Looks like he bloody well tried his hardest to,” Mimir chides, looking Kratos up and down. “I’m surprised you didn’t pass out on the way back.”

“I did.”

“Ah. Right.”

Freya runs back, a basket swinging on her arm. She sets it down beside Kratos and rushes to her workbench, grabbing a mortar and pestle. She begins grinding together the different herbs, husks and flowers, then lets them sit for a moment while she fetches a bowl of water from the pot hanging over the hearth. The flames are barely embers but the water is warm. Freya tips some of the water into the mortar, then dips a cloth into the bowl to dampen it.

“This will sting,” she says, reaching up to wipe the blood away from Kratos’ arms.

“Can you not heal me first?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“I need to clean the blood off or else I won’t be able to see where I need to heal. Just stay still, I’m trying to be quick.” Freya wipes the cloth as gently as she dares over the wounds, cleaning away the dried blood. A few of the wounds that had closed open up again at her touch, and she has to wipe the fresh blood away.

It takes a painfully long time to clean all the blood away from Kratos’ arms, torso, neck and face. There are a few moments where Freya can tell the god wants to shove her away – the way he bites his lip and tries to hide a grunt makes it rather obvious. Sometimes he doesn’t even try to hide it, and just pushes her hand away when she wipes the cloth over a particularly painful cut. Finally, Freya has done all she can do, and she sets the cloth down.

“You know how this part goes,” she says, running her fingers through the mortar to gather the paste on her fingers. She begins smearing the paste over the deeper cuts – which, really, is all of them.

“Why can’t you heal them dry, like the last time?” Kratos asks, wincing, as Freya finishes tending to his right arm.

“Because,” she replies, smearing the paste into a large gash on Kratos’ chest and causing him to cry out, “those wounds did not go to the bone. These ones do.”

Kratos huffs softly and looks away. He tries to ignore the stinging of the paste on his wounds.

“I still can’t believe you’re alive,” Freya says after a few tense minutes of silence. She stands up, still holding the mortar, and wipes the paste gently into the gash above Kratos’ eye.

“Neither can I,” he replies, looking away. “Though that should not be something to be celebrated.”

“Why not? Shouldn’t we be happy you came back in one piece?”

“I would have died, had Heimdallr not shown mercy. By all means, I should have been killed.”

“But you were not. Surely that means something.”

Kratos doesn’t respond, just closes his eyes as Freya moves her hand away.

“Alright, that’s all the wounds covered. Stay still.” She reaches out and puts two fingers on each of Kratos’ temples. Freya begins to murmur the words to the healing spell and Kratos lets out a shuddering sigh as some of the pain is instantly alleviated.

Freya can’t heal him completely. Even after repeating the spell multiple times, the deeper gashes – like the one above Kratos’ sternum that went all the way to the bone – still aren’t completely healed, but there’s only so much she can do for him, and only so much she can allow herself to do.

When Freya steps away, sweat beading at her forehead and cheeks flushed from the exertion, Kratos finally opens his eyes and looks up at her. “Rest,” he says, voice low.

“You’re one to talk,” Freya replies, chuckling softly. “Try not to move too much. I’m going to go get some fresh air. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

Kratos nods, and Freya walks out the back. When he’s sure she’s gone, Mimir speaks up.

“What now, brother? You’ve exhausted all your options.”

Kratos exhales through his nose and looks down at the ground. “I do not know.”

“I don’t think there’s anything more you can do.”

Kratos stands up and walks to the front door, ignoring Mimir’s calls for him to stay still and rest. He pushes the door open and walks out into the front garden, walking straight to the pile of rubble left over from where he broke the rune-inscribed rocks.

“What are you yelling about?” Freya asks, stepping back into the house. She looks annoyed at having been disturbed. When she sees Kratos is gone, she just sighs and walks to the front door. Freya opens it and goes to walk to him, but she stops, and just watches him for a moment.

Kratos sits on one of the broken lumps of rock and lowers his head. He takes a moment to just breathe, before looking up at the sky.

“Faye,” Kratos begins, and his voice breaks as he speaks. He tries again, voice a little more stable this time. “Faye, I’m sorry. I’ve lost our son. I don’t know how to find him. I’ve tried everything I can think of…and still he is lost to me. And I am lost, too. Without you…without him. I don’t know what to do, Faye. I cannot do this without you.”

When Kratos drops his head and does not move for a few minutes, Freya walks towards him. She stops by his side and takes a seat on another broken chunk of rock.

“You should be resting,” she says gently, laying a hand lightly on Kratos’ shoulder. She makes sure to rest it on a place that had healed fully.

“I don’t know what to do,” he replies, looking at Freya from the corner of his eye. “I’ve done everything…and none of it was enough.”

Freya is silent. She looks down at her lap, then back up at Kratos. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she says, voice soft. “I don’t know what to say. The promise still stands – I will do everything I can to bring your son back to you. But other than that…I don’t know what to tell you.”

Neither of them knows what to say. There are no words to express what they’re feeling. They just share the other’s company. Finally, Freya stands and Kratos follows. They walk back in to the house, and Kratos takes his place on the bed again.

“Rest,” Freya orders gently, and this time Kratos is quick to comply.

 

* * *

 

Atreus looks an absolute mess, but he’s well-rested, and that’s all that really matters. His hair is mussed from sleep and the clothes he’s pulled on are mismatched. He’s standing beside his bed – which is a mess of furs and worn clothes – trying to clean the dried blood from his knife when the door opens behind him.

“Morning, Fulla,” he calls, not looking up. “Just let me –”

“Good morning, Atreus.”

Atreus drops his knife and whirls. “Odin!” he gapes, momentarily too shocked to act. Then he seems to realise the state of his room, and himself, and begins hurrying to straighten the furs and make himself presentable. “I am so sorry about the mess –”

“Do not worry, boy. I have seen my fair share of messes in my life, and yours is far from the worst.”

“Right. Still, sorry.” Odin’s words do little to dampen the blush burning at Atreus’ cheeks and darkening the tips of his ears. “So, um, what can I do for you?”

“I would like to talk to you. Outside, if you don’t mind. The fresh air is so much more pleasant than that inside the palace, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Definitely,” Atreus replies. He smooths his shirt down and moves to Odin’s side. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

Odin offers a knowing smile and steps out into the hall. Atreus hurries to follow him.

They walk out into the warm morning light and Atreus takes a deep breath in through his nose. In all the time he has been in Asgard it hasn’t smelt like anything but spring. He hasn’t seen a single snowflake. It’s never even been painfully cold.

After a few minutes of silence, Odin turns off the path and begins walking across the grass. “So,” he says, voice warm. “How much do you know about your mother?”

“Not much,” Atreus admits. “I mean, I know about her as a person, but not as a Jötunn. She never even told me, and neither did my father. I don’t know much about the Jötnar in general.”

“That’s very unfortunate.” Odin frowns slightly. “Their history is very rich. They were a wise people, and they had invaluable knowledge of Ragnarök. Unfortunately, they were not particularly keen on sharing it. They wanted to keep it all to themselves, giving themselves the advantage in the oncoming battle. Any attempts to reason with them were met with resistance, until finally they sealed the way to Jötunheimr so we could not reach them. With the Jötunheimr tower gone, we had no way of accessing the knowledge that could help prevent the onset of Ragnarök.”

Atreus pulls a face. “That’s…not what Mimir said.”

“Of course it isn’t. He was an ally of the Jötnar – he would say anything to bring you around to their side. I suppose he told you we slaughtered them, too?”

“Well…yes.”

“We may be gods, Atreus, but that means only so much – and we are only so few. It may be true that Thor fought and even killed a handful of the Jötnar, but to say that he slaughtered them? My son is a force to be reckoned with, but he is only one man against a nation.” Odin folds his arms behind his back. “Mimir wanted your pity, and he wanted your help to bring the Jötnar back in full force.”

Atreus looks away, chest burning. “And we fell for it.”

Odin stops walking and turns so he is facing the boy. He lifts his chin and smiles kindly down at him. “Do not fear, boy. You were misguided – but you can amend for the mistakes of the past. With your help, we can find another way to Jötunheimr.”

“How? My father destroyed the last gate.”

“We believe there is another way. Surely Týr would not have left a single gateway when he helped seal the Jötnar away. And you are just the person to help us. You’re a Jötunn, so if there is anyone who can help us find Jötunheimr, it is you.”

Atreus looks up at Odin, eyes widening a touch. “Really?”

“Yes. I believe you will be the one who leads us back to Jötunheimr, and the knowledge hidden there. We all have faith in you, Atreus.” Odin straightens and smiles down at the boy. “Prove us right.”

 

“Atreus.”

Atreus looks up from where he’s sat on the floor of the Travel Room. He’s breathing heavily, trying to force in air around the fog hanging thick in his lungs.

“Yes?” he asks, voice breathless.

Baldur walks over and crouches beside him. “You know how to use this?” He holds out a Bifröst crystal.

Atreus looks down at the crystal, then up at the god holding it. “I know how it works, but I’ve never used it.”

“Good. You’re going to today.”

As soon as he’s ready, Atreus takes the crystal from Baldur’s hand and stands up. He walks over to the altar and studies it.

“I just put the crystal in here, then turn the inner platform back to Asgard, right?”

“Right. Show me.”

Atreus nods and raises the crystal. He places his left hand down on the altar to steady himself, and is suddenly struck blind.

Images flash across Atreus’ vision – a brief shot of the Travel Room, then a room above it, and finally a central panel from a Jötnar shrine.

Atreus’ senses come back to him one by one, so he hears the faint, “–eus…Atreus?” before he sees Baldur. When his sight finally comes back to him, Atreus finds that Baldur is crouching beside him, one hand resting on his arm, and looking up at him in concern.

“Are you alright?” Baldur asks.

“What happened?” Atreus groans. He raises his hand to his head and finds that the marks on his palm are still faintly glowing, like they do after he has cast a spell.

“I don’t know. You just froze, and your markings started glowing. And your eyes went solid white – kind of shone like your hands and mouth.”

“I saw…” Atreus opens his eyes a touch wider. He turns and points up to the wall of the room, where what looks like a balcony is visible. “Up there.”

“What?” Baldur follows the direction Atreus is pointing in and narrows his eyes. “It’s one of my father’s chambers. But there is nothing up there of interest to us.”

“You’re wrong,” Atreus says, walking away from the altar. He moves to the outer circle of the room and walks beneath the balcony. One of the panels above him looks different, and he stops beneath it. “Here. It’s a lift, but it’s stuck up there. We’ll have to come in through the roof.”

“What’s up there of interest to you? What did you see?”

“I think…” Atreus takes a deep breath and turns to face Baldur. “I think it will lead us to Jötunheimr.”

 

Once they’re back in Asgard, Baldur has Víðarr help him remove a portion of the roof of the Travel Room big enough for himself and Atreus to enter through.

Baldur scales the temple while Atreus flies in through the hole in the roof, shifting back into his human form as soon as he lands. The pair move through the rooms of the chamber until Atreus finds just what he’s looking for.

“There,” he says, running over to the panel. Baldur lets the doors slam behind him and follows the boy.

“What is it?”

“The missing panel from Týr’s shrine. Odin must have taken it and left it here when he couldn’t figure out what it meant.”

“Well, what does it mean?”

“I’m not sure.”

Atreus steps forwards and places his palm flat against the panel. Again, his vision is overcome by white, then the flashing images return. They’re different this time. Atreus sees himself, holding something small and round up in front of the panel. He sees the panel before him, lit up with a white-gold light. And he sees, just briefly, something about the panel beginning to change. Then the flashes die away and Atreus steps backwards, blinking furiously.

“What did you see this time?”

“The panel,” Atreus whispers, head snapping up to stare at it. “There’s more to it. Hidden.”

“How do we reveal it?”

_Something small and round. A white-gold light._

Atreus looks up, his expression splitting into a grin. “I know what we need to do.”

 

* * *

 

Freya steps back into her home and sets Kratos’ weapons down on the table. “Sindri was a little displeased at how dirty you managed to get Leviathan in a single fight.”

“I thought you went to Brok?” Kratos asks, pushing himself upright on the bed.

“Oh, I did. They started working together again. Sindri approached Brok while you were fighting Heimdallr and they made up. Talked out all their problems too, apparently.”

“Really?” Mimir pipes up. “I didn’t think they were capable.”

Freya chuckles softly and takes a seat at her worktable. She begins to flip lazily through a book.

“Freya?” Kratos asks after a few minutes.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me about Valhalla.”

Freya looks up, a little confused, but obliges. “Well, there isn’t much to tell. Those who die in battle are led to Valhalla. They fight all day, and of a night they feast and drink. It’s supposed to be the best thing ever to happen to them, but little do they know that come Ragnarök, they will all be called on to fight – and die – for Odin.”

“And Valhalla is in Asgard, correct?”

“Yes, wh–”

Freya freezes, then slowly stands.

“No.”

“It is the only option I have left.”

“Getting yourself killed is not an _option_ , Kratos! What if something goes wrong? What if you end up in Hel? Or even if you do make it to Valhalla, how will you escape? There are too many things that can go wrong.”

“It is a risk I am willing to take. I have died before – my own father killed me, and I fought my way back from the underworld. This land’s afterlife will not hold me.”

“I don’t know what your homeland’s underworld was like, but neither Hel nor Valhalla are so easy to escape from,” Freya hisses. “Odin will not let you go. No one has ever escaped Valhalla. And should you end up in Helheim, you will have even less of a chance. You have seen the lost souls that wander through Hel – you will lose every part of yourself, including the memory of the desire to escape.”

Kratos squares his jaw and Freya gives a furious groan.

“Listen to me! I know you were told you had no chance of surviving an encounter with Heimdallr and then did, but this is _different_! This time you really will have _no hope_ of escaping either Helheim or Valhalla. You need to take a step back and think about what you want to do. There’s nothing more you can do now – you need to be patient and wait for another opportunity. This isn’t the path to take!”

“I am tired of waiting,” Kratos growls. “Atreus has been left waiting for me for too long. I need to find him.”

Freya is about to respond, but before she can, the air beside them seems to ripple. Kratos blinks, his mind unable to comprehend what he’s seeing. By the time he looks back, Sindri is standing beside them.

“You need to come to the temple,” he says, the most serious Kratos has ever heard him.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s turning again – and the bridge is locked onto Midgard.”

Kratos’ heart seizes in his chest. “I’ll be right there.”

Sindri nods and disappears the same way he arrived. Kratos sweeps up Leviathan and his blades, hooking them all on his back.

“Stay here,” he barks, throwing open the back door.

“Kratos–”

“Stay here!”

When Kratos emerges from the realm between realms, it’s to the sight of both Brok and Sindri bathed in the light of the Travel Room. He steps into the centre of the room and reaches back, gripping Leviathan’s handle tightly but not drawing it.

Kratos cannot help but wonder just who is going to step out of the Travel Room. One of the gods, no doubt. Most likely Baldur, come to rub into Kratos’ face all the torturous things he has done to his son. Perhaps it’s Thor, coming to seek revenge for his sons.

The doors open, and a figure steps out. The light of the Travel Room is so bright that Kratos can only make out the human shape walking across the light bridge towards him. Whoever it is stops on the solid ground at the end of the bridge. The light behind him – and it’s definitely a _him_ – dies away, and Kratos lowers his hand from his axe, expression falling into one of shock and disbelief. His mind struggles to comprehend what his eyes are seeing. _It’s impossible_.

Because it’s Atreus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atreus has changed, and it's (not) for the better.

The first thing Kratos notices is the scars lacing Atreus’ arms and neck. There’s a burn scar visible under the lowered hood of his half cloak, spreading up the back and side of his neck and presumably down across his shoulder. So that’s why the bridge kept locking on to Muspelheim, Kratos thinks. They tortured his son there.

Most of the scars along his arms are rough – not clean enough to be made by a fine blade. The few that are made by weaponry – other than…what? – are larger, quite likely deeper, definitely more painful. Seeing what his son has endured steals Kratos’ breath and tightens his chest.

And then he notices his son’s height.

Atreus is taller – almost up to his father’s shoulders. He’s had a growth spurt – he’s _grown_. And Kratos wasn’t there for it. His son, his _child_ , has been forced to grow up and mature without him. _Because_ of him.

“Atreus,” Kratos whispers, taking a step forwards.

It’s the fastest he’s ever seen his son draw his bow and nock an arrow. And it’s aimed right at him.

Kratos hears Brok let loose a string of curses, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the two dwarves share a look. Sindri disappears, slipping into the realm between realms.

“Atreus,” Kratos says, trying to keep his voice level. “What are you doing?”

“This doesn’t have to end badly,” the boy says, and the way he says it reminds Kratos so much of Baldur – of the way he spoke the first time they met – that he can almost see the god standing in place of his son. “Don’t make things difficult for yourself. Just hand over the head.”

“Mimir?” Kratos straightens slightly, not missing the faint twitch of Atreus’ finger on the arrow.

“Was I not clear?”

Kratos is silent for a moment before he tightens his jaw. “What happened to you?”

“I found myself,” Atreus replies, voice hard. “You abandoned me, and the Æsir helped me find myself again. You gave up on me. They embraced me.”

“No,” Kratos says, taking a step forwards. Atreus draws the bow tighter, and he stops walking. “I did not abandon you, Atreus. I did everything I could to find you.”

“I’m so sure!” Atreus sneers at him, voice malicious. “You didn’t even _try_! You left me alone for two years.”

“Two yea–” Kratos sucks in a breath. “Atreus, it has been only _months_.”

“Don’t lie to me. I may not have kept perfect track, but it was more than mere months.” Atreus takes a deep breath in through his nose and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his gaze has hardened and the emotion has slipped from his face. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. You abandoning me was the best thing that ever happened to me. The Æsir taught me what it is to be a god. And they told me what you never would.”

“I did not tell you what you were to protect you.”

“To protect yourself, more like.” Atreus looks down his nose at his father. “Well go on, then. Keep protecting yourself. Give me the head.”

“He is not with me.”

“Then you’re of no use to me.” The corners of his mouth twitch upwards into the faintest hint of a smile.

“You won’t do it,” Kratos says, meeting his son’s gaze.

Atreus gives a single, guttural chuckle. “Won’t I?”

He lets the arrow fly.

The arrowhead goes right through Kratos’ shoulder and the shaft lodges firmly in his muscle. The skin around it burns, and Kratos feels fire race through his veins. He looks back at the arrowhead and finds faint smears of a thick, purple goo on the stone. There’s traces of it around the entry point, and most likely now traces of it in his veins.

Poison.

“You should have about twenty minutes,” Atreus says, slipping his bow back over his shoulder. It fits him so much better now, Kratos can’t help noticing. “Then you’ll be irreversibly…dead.”

He _giggles_ , and it’s the most terrifying sound Kratos ever heard.

Suddenly the air behind Atreus ripples, and Sindri appears at his back. He grabs a hold of Atreus, pinning his arms down and sending him reeling backwards.

“Get _off_ me!” Atreus roars, eyes wide and furious.

“Get him out of here,” Sindri calls to Brok, trying his hardest to ignore Atreus writhing in his arms.

“What about you –”

“Go! I’ll be fine!”

Brok stares worriedly at his brother for a moment before disappearing and reappearing at Kratos’ side. “We need to get you out of here.”

“I know where,” Kratos growls, walking to the doorway to the realm between realms. He’s still drained and wounded from his fight with Heimdallr, and the poison coursing through his veins isn’t helping.

Brok follows, letting the doorway crumble behind him.

“You,” Atreus seethes, “are going to regret that.”

“Not as much as you’re going to regret what you did,” Sindri replies, tightening his grip on the boy. Atreus is taller than him now, so he’s struggling to hold the boy in place. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Whatever I want.”

Atreus slams his foot down on Sindri’s, making the dwarf cry out. He throws his head backwards, slamming his skull into Sindri’s nose. It disorients him, and Atreus grins as he feels the man’s grip on him loosen. He kicks himself backwards, slamming Sindri against the wall with their full combined body weight. His head hits with enough force that he momentarily blacks out, and when he comes around again, Atreus is pinning him to the wall and pressing the blade of his knife against his throat.

“What are you doing, Atreus?” Sindri asks, vision shifting in and out of focus as he recovers from the head-hit. “This…this isn’t what your mother wanted. It isn’t what she foresaw.”

“What?” Atreus digs the knife in a little deeper and Sindri whimpers softly. “What did she see?”

Sindri stares, wide-eyed, at the blade of the knife, then turns his gaze to glare up at Atreus. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Atreus stares down at him for a moment before smiling slyly. “You’re right. You don’t have to talk. But maybe the blue one would be more willing to share what he knows?”

“No,” Sindri exclaims, panic lacing his voice. “Don’t hurt him – I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, just don’t touch Brok!”

“I knew you’d come around,” Atreus purrs. “Now, what did mother see?”

“You,” the dwarf murmurs, averting his gaze. “Her son, final hope of the Jötnar. He who would save them from the tyranny of the gods. She remained in Midgard as the Guardian. To her people, she was known as Laufey the Just – and you, Loki.”

“Loki?” Atreus rolls the word around on his tongue. “Much better than Atreus, don’t you think?”

“You don’t have to do this, Atreus.”

“That’s not my name.”

Sindri makes a small, choked sound at the back of his throat and looks away. “Please, listen to me – your father didn’t abandon you. He searched tirelessly for you, he almost died –”

“Did I ask?” Loki hisses. “I do not care about my father – all I need to know regarding him is just where he’s hidden Mimir.”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe your brother will.”

“I don’t know!” Sindri’s voice is pleading. “I wasn’t exactly looking for him when I went to fetch your father and he wasn’t on his belt so I _don’t know_!”

Loki huffs and draws the blade of his knife back slightly, so it isn’t digging quite so deeply into Sindri’s throat. “How do we reach Jötunheimr?”

“Your father destroyed the gateway.”

“If you knew my mother – if she told you her stories – then surely she told you of another way there.”

“No. She never told us. We didn’t even know the rune for the gateway.”

“Týr’s shrine, then. The middle panel – what’s hidden on it?”

“I don’t know.”

Loki snarls. “If you are lying to me –”

“I’m not! I swear, I’m not. Laufey never told me or Brok anything. That’s honestly all I know.”

Loki pauses for a moment, then slowly draws his knife away from Sindri’s throat and steps back. “Fine. I’ll believe you. But if I find out you were lying to me…” He runs a finger along the edge of the blade and lets his blood drip onto the floor. Sindri gags softly and stumbles from the wall to the workbench.

Loki turns away and begins walking to the temple doors. He feels the shift in the air behind him and spins around, snapping his hand around Sindri’s wrist. The dwarf is holding his half of the brand – the first thing he could grab – ready to bring down across the back of Loki’s skull. His eyes widen when he’s caught and he lets out some semblance of a humane sound.

“That,” Loki snarls, tearing the brand from Sindri’s hand and throwing it across the room, “was a mistake.”

He shoves the dwarf roughly backwards, and Sindri falls. He scrambles backwards until his back hits the wall and Loki crouches in front of him, brandishing his knife.

“Since you seem to hate talking so much, how about I make it so that you never have to talk again?”

“Why are you doing this?” Sindri asks between gasping breaths. “Why are you helping the Æsir?”

“Because,” Loki whispers, leaning forwards so he’s speaking right into Sindri’s ear, “I’m a god, too.”

He raises the knife.

 

* * *

 

Kratos can’t help but feel pitiful. His son hates him – sided with the enemy – and it’s all his fault. The fact that he can barely keep himself upright isn’t helping either.

Twenty minutes until death doesn’t mean twenty minutes until unconscious, and already the poison is causing Kratos to stagger along Yggdrasil’s branches.

“Come on, you sumbitch, you’ve outlived tougher shit than this. Don’t you go dying on me,” Brok grumbles. He’s trying his hardest to help Kratos walk but it’s a little hard when he’s half the man’s size.

“Be quiet,” Kratos snarks back, and Brok can’t help but feel relieved – as long as the man is able to bag on him, he’s still alive.

“Where are we going? You still haven’t told me just where we’re coming out. Do I gotta be prepared for anything?”

“Freya.” Kratos’ voice is low.

“ _Freya_?”

“I did not want to say it in front of the boy.”

“The Æsir have gone and fucked him over, real good. Never thought the kid would pull a stunt like that.”

“It is not his fault. I should have found him faster. I should have _found him_.”

“You couldn’t do shit, and you know it. Only way you’re getting in to Asgard is if the Æsir wants you there.”

Kratos doesn’t respond, and for a horrifying moment Brok thinks he’s passed out. But he grunts a second later and Brok realises he’s just being ignored.

“How’d you meet Freya?” he asks after a moment, if only to keep Kratos’ mind on something other than the growing urge to collapse.

“Atreus shot her friend. He was a pig.”

“That bad?”

Kratos stares down at Brok as though he’s just asked the dumbest question in the world and replies, “He was literally a pig.”

“That would make more sense.” Brok gives a relieved sigh when the doorway appears before them, just as Kratos stumbles. “No, no, you don’t get to die now – your son’s still out there, running amok. You need to whip him back into shape.”

Kratos pauses just long enough to catch his breath before stepping out of the doorway and into the caves under Freya’s home. Her house is mercifully lowered, so they don’t have to go far. Kratos leans his weight against the doorframe while Brok pounds at the door.

“Kratos! Are you al–” Freya opens the door to Brok’s worried expression and her face falls. She looks to the side and sees Kratos. “Oh, help me get him inside.”

Brok takes Kratos’ weight and leads him to the chair beside the hearth while Freya calls for Chaurli to stand up. She crosses the room and looks at the head of the arrow, which is still stuck in Kratos’ shoulder. She snaps the shaft and carefully removes the two broken pieces.

“Who did this?” Freya asks, studying the arrow. “It’s Æsir made…was it Ullr who shot him?”

“It was the kid.”

“What?” her head snaps up and she drops the broken arrow in shock.

“The kid shot him. Came out of the Travel Room all on his own, all grown up and mature and still baby-faced, spouting on nonsense about his father abandoning him.” He looks past Freya to the very concerned head sitting on the table. “And he was looking for you, Mimir. No idea what for, but he seemed pretty pissed when this one said he didn’t have you.”

“Why would he be interested in Mimir?” Freya asks, looking over her shoulder at him.

“Never mind that,” the head says, flicking his gaze to the now passed out Kratos. “Can you cure him?”

“The poison is very potent…how long ago was he struck?”

“Only a few minutes.”

“Then we still have time. Quickly, I need you to go out into the garden and fetch a few things for me. There’s a clover growing down by the river – I need a handful. Then there’s a plant to the left of the door with big white petals. I need the stamens. Go, quickly.”

Brok nods and runs to fetch what she needs. Freya moves to the pot hanging over the fire and begins mixing in different ingredients from her shelves. She moves to grab something and curses.

“There’s none left – damn it, there’s not enough time to find more.”

“What’s troubling you?”

“The poison is made from a berry that grows only at extremely high points. It’s incredibly common in Asgard, which must be how Atre–” Freya cuts herself off. “How the Æsir got it, but there’s only one place in Midgard high enough for it to grow. I’ll never reach it in time.”

“You’re forgetting, Freya – you’ve got a dwarf in your backyard right now.”

Freya’s eyes light up and she gives a relieved sigh. “Of course. I’m sorry, I’m – I’m still a little stuck on Atreus –”

“You don’t need to apologise, just try to focus. He’s counting on you.”

“This what you need?” Brok asks as he burst back in. Freya jumps slightly, and waves him over.

“Perfect,” she says, taking the clover and stamens from his hands. “I need you to fetch one more thing. On the top of the mountain, there should be a tree with a headless body in it.”

Brok looks past Freya at Mimir, who offers a sheepish grin. “What about it?”

“Just beyond it you’ll find bushes – very small and low to the ground. There should be dark blue berries on them. I need a handful.”

“On it.” Brok vanishes, and Freya turns back to the hanging pot and adds in the ingredients Brok brought her. She stirs it about for a moment before leaning back and sighing.

“I don’t believe it. Atreus, he…surely it couldn’t have been him.”

“Kratos told you he began to lose his way. He’s just a child, Freya. He’s confused, and afraid. The Æsir would take advantage of that. You know what they’re like. They’ll manipulate anything they can to bring him around to their side. And for a boy so young, it surely wouldn’t be hard. He was already turning down a dark path. It would not take much to push him in the desired direction.”

“I know. I should have expected this. I just didn’t think he’d have anything they would want. I thought they would torture him, hurt him – just not in this way.”

The air behind her shimmers and Brok comes stumbling back in. “This them?”

“Yes! Bring them here, quickly.” Freya eagerly takes the berries and tips half of them into her mortar. She begins to grind them up, then turns to Brok. “Cut the other half open – there’s a knife on the bench, there. I need the seeds.”

Brok begins hurriedly cutting into the berries and picking out the seeds. Mercifully, he finds they’re large and easy to pick out. Freya motions for him to drop them straight into the pot and he obliges. Once she’s crushed up the other half of the berries, she scrapes them out into the pot and resumes stirring.

“Pass me that bowl, please,” she says, motioning to a small wooden bowl on the bench. Brok hands it to her and she dips it into the pot. When she draws it out, she walks over to Kratos and takes a seat beside him. Freya holds the bowl out over him, and faint traces of it begin to drift through the air towards him, just as they did when she healed Atreus of his sickness.

Brok stands by her side for a moment before he looks up. “You need my help for anything else? Only, we left Sindri alone with the boy, and I’ve just got a feeling somethin’ bad happened to him.”

“Go,” Freya says, nodding to the door. “You have done all you can do. Now we wait, and hope we got the antidote to him in time. Thank you.”

Brok nods and vanishes into the realm between realms, the rippling air the only indication that he had ever been there.

“What now?” Mimir asks after a few minutes of silence.

“We wait. See what becomes of him.”

“Are you talking about Kratos, or the lad?”

Freya sighs and turns her head away. It’s enough of an answer for Mimir, and he lets the topic slide.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Brok notices when he returns to Týr’s temple is the blood on the floor.

It nearly sends him into a panic, but he forces himself to calm down. He begins walking silently, fearful that Atreus may still be hanging around. The blood seems to have been trekked away from the back wall and towards the front door, so it’s probable that someone has walked through the other’s blood and left the temple. Brok’s throat tightens at the thought of Sindri taking either role.

The flickering firelight of the torches reflects off something against the wall opposite from the shop. Brok walks slowly over to it and kneels down, lifting the long, metal object. It’s Sindri’s brand.

Brok grips the brand as tightly as his shaking hands will allow and stands up. He turns around to keep scanning the temple and freezes when his gaze settles on the figure behind the forge. They have their head down, and their front is bloodied. Because of this, it takes Brok a moment to figure out that he’s looking at Sindri.

Brok drops the brand and the second it hits the ground he sees Sindri flinch away. He runs towards his brother, which only seems to worry him more. Sindri makes a wet, guttural groan as Brok drops to the ground in front of him and jerks his head away.

“Sindri, it’s me. It’s okay, it’s just me,” Brok murmurs, putting his hand gently on his brother’s knee. Sindri relaxes immediately, leaning slightly forwards. He stops moving with a loud, wet grunt and tightens his right hand over his mouth.

Brok reaches out and lifts his brother’s head. His eyes are screwed shut in pain, and the blood that’s coating his chest, hand and arm is coming from his mouth. Then Brok’s gaze travels down to his left shoulder, where an arrow has been driven so deeply through the muscle that it’s pinned Sindri to the wall.

“That little shit,” Brok hisses. “Stay still, I need to get this out.” He reaches around Sindri to carefully break the arrow, just as he saw Freya do. When the arrow shifts in Sindri’s shoulder he groans loudly, and fresh tears slide down his cheeks to clear lines through the blood. Brok carefully removes the arrow from Sindri’s shoulder and tosses it across the room.

Sindri instantly leans away from Brok and opens his mouth, letting out a wet, guttural cough as he spits the blood from his mouth. When it doesn’t seem to stop coming, Brok reaches out and lifts his brother’s chin.

“Show me,” he says, turning Sindri’s face towards him. The dwarf hesitates, before opening his mouth. Brok releases his brother’s jaw, blood boiling.

Atreus has cut out Sindri’s tongue.

“That little fuck is lucky he isn’t here.” Brok growls, looping his arm around his brother and helping him to his feet. He leads him out to the light bridge and helps him kneel at the edge, so that he can spit out the blood into the open air. “Wait there, I’ll just be a second.”

Brok walks back to the forge and grabs one of the rags from under the workbench, trying his hardest to ignore the wet sounds of Sindri’s coughing and gagging. He chooses the cleanest rag and runs down to the water at the bottom of the bridge. He dampens the cloth and hurries back to his brother, relieved to find that the bleeding has begun to at least slow.

“I’m going to clean you up, okay? It’ll be cold.” Brok presses the rag against Sindri’s chin and begins to clean the blood from around his mouth. Once he’s cleaned Sindri’s chin and neck, he peels away his dented armour from his shoulder and cleans the arrow wound.

Brok sets the cloth down and lifts Sindri’s chin. “Hey. Look at me?”

Sindri screws his eyes shut tighter for a moment, then opens them, blinking tears free. He looks away, wrapping his arms around himself, and closes his eyes again.

“Come on, let’s get you to Freya. Maybe she can do…somethin’ for you.”

Brok stands up and taps Sindri’s uninjured shoulder lightly to get his attention. Sindri looks up at his brother, who offers his hand. After a moment’s pause, he accepts the offer – it’s not like whatever little beasties living on Brok will be worse than the ones in his own blood, which he is now very much covered in.

“We’ll get you sorted,” Brok promises walking with Sindri to the door to the realm between realms. Neither of them feel up to making the trip unaided, or alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn you guys that Sindri would suffer. It's right there in the tags. You all knew what you were getting in to when you signed up for this ride.  
> I also hurt Kratos a lot? Like a lot. Freya must be getting sick of patching him up lol.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brok is a concerned brother and Loki is a bit of a dick.

“Did you get it?”

Loki lands beside Baldur, taking a few staggered steps forwards as he shifts back to a human. “No. He didn’t have the head with him, and I don’t know where it is.”

“Don’t worry yourself. There will be other opportunities to retrieve it.”

Loki nods and turns back towards Baldur, who furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

“You’re covered in blood.”

“I –” Loki looks down at himself and looks at his clothes. There’s blood matting the fur of his half cloak and staining his hands, but other than that he’s relatively clean. “Well, I wouldn’t say _covered_.”

“That’s fair.” Baldur reaches out to wipe a smudge of blood off Loki’s cheek. The boy pouts good-naturedly and playfully swats his hand away.

“Come along, Atreus –”

“Loki.”

“What?” Baldur throws a confused look over his shoulder.

“My name. It’s Loki.”

“Well, where did this come from?” he asks, turning to face Loki. He seems amused, but not rudely so.

“It’s…what my mother named me. It feels right.”

There’s a pause, then Baldur nods and smiles faintly. “Loki it is. Well then, let’s get going.”

“Where are we heading?” Loki asks, matching step with Baldur.

“I’m going to start looking for the head. You can come with me, if you’d like, or you can go off on your own and we’ll meet up later.”

Loki considers it for a moment, before he smiles. “I’m going to go explore. See if I can find them from the air. And I’ll take a look around the place. I’ve been away for two years – best to reorient myself with the place.”

Baldur nods. “I’ll meet up with you again later this evening. You should be able to find me?”

“Probably. But if I can’t, surely it will be no problem for Odin’s finest tracker to find me.”

“No problem at all,” Baldur replies, chuckling. Loki flashes a grin and takes off running, shifting to a falcon as he leaps into the air. Baldur turns away once he’s out of sight and walks deeper into the trees.

 

* * *

 

In just the few minutes it takes to walk the branches of the World Tree and step out at Freya’s house, Sindri has had to spit out blood enough that his beard is again matted with it. Both dwarves try to ignore the fact that the bleeding still hasn’t stopped.

When they step out into the caves beneath Freya’s home, it’s still at the surface. Sindri taps Brok’s arm and gives a quizzical look to the area around them, unable to speak. It takes Brok only a second to understand what he’s asking.

“Would you believe me? We’re under Freya’s house.”

Sindri’s expression changes to one of shock.

“Yep, the one and only. We gotta find a way up. Keep an eye out.”

They end up finding the well leading to the surface relatively quickly, which is just as well, because Sindri’s arm is still bleeding and he’s slowly beginning to lose feeling in it. It takes the two of them pushing and pulling each other to climb the well, and when they reach the top, Sindri has to sit down and wait for Brok to knock on the door and get Freya’s attention.

“You’re back,” she says, surprised, when she opens the door.

“You can heal people?”

“I – well, yes. Are you hurt?”

Brok motions to Sindri, who looks up when he sees the motion. Freya claps her hand over her mouth in shock.

“The kid cut his tongue out and nailed him to the wall with an arrow. He’s bleeding a lot. You can help him?”

“Bring him in.”

Brok moves back to Sindri and helps him inside. Freya motions for him to sit on the edge of the bed. She grabs a clean, damp cloth and a small jar with the same thin, green paste she used to treat Kratos’ wounds from his fight with Heimdallr. While she cleans out the wound, Brok walks across the room and stops in front of Kratos.

“He okay?”

Freya looks up momentarily before looking back at Sindri. “He’s fine. He woke up not long ago and fell asleep again almost instantly. The poison should be gone by now, but I left the bowl beside him. He just needs to rest.”

Brok nods and walks back over towards the bed. He stands beside Freya and watches as she seals the arrow wound. She cleans the wound again for good measure before touching Sindri’s jaw gently.

“Can you fix it?”

“I’m afraid the best I can do for him is to stop the bleeding.”

“That’s all?”

“I’m sorry.” Freya stands and crosses the room. She lifts a small bowl and another jar, this one filled with little orange beads. Freya tips two into her hand and walks back to Sindri. She holds out the bowl. “Spit the blood out into this.”

Sindri looks a little disgusted at the idea but take the bowl. He closes his eyes and spits all the blood from his mouth. Freya gives him water and he washes his mouth a little before spitting that out, too.

“Let these sit in your mouth for a minute, then swallow,” Freya says, palling him the beads. Sindri hesitantly follows her orders.

“That’s it?” Brok asks, folding his arms.

“All I can do is seal the wound. To regrow his tongue, I require the leaf of a plant that grows only on Asgard. I did bring some with me when I was exiled here, but…I have since used all of it. I truly am sorry. This is all I can do.”

Brok nods slowly and folds his arms. Sindri grunts to get his attention and mouths something to him. “He says thank you.” Sindri raises an eyebrow and Brok sighs. “Fine, we says thank you.”

Freya gives a warm smile. “You’re welcome.” She stands and gathers the bowls, jar and cloth and carries them across the room to clean them. “Where were you two staying?”

“The shop,” Brok admits.

“It may be unsafe for you to remain there. My home is open to you.”

“Ah, we can’t intrude. You’ve already got him stayin’ here.” Brok motions towards Kratos. “And the head. Bet the last thing you’d want is a couple dwarves hanging around.”

“Please. I would hate for anything more to happen to you. And I have the room to spare.”

Sindri and Brok share a look, and Brok speaks up. “Not in here, you don’t. But me and Sindri can stay in the yard.”

“You don’t have to –”

“We’re used to living out and about. I just need to get out gear, and we’ll set up outside. Sure ain’t a bad place.”

Freya wrings her hands together for a moment before nodding. “Perhaps it would be for the best, room-wise. Though you are welcome to come inside whenever you like. Take care while you fetch your gear – Atreus is likely still out there.”

“Don’t fret your pretty little head over it. Kid’ll need to catch me first.”

Brok disappears into thin air, and Freya throws Sindri a look. He just shrugs and looks at the place where Brok was.

“You should rest, too,” Freya says after a moment. “You lost a fair bit of blood. Sleep. Your brother will be back before you know it.”

Sindri looks up at Freya for a moment, then looks at the bed and lies down. He draws a couple of furs up over himself and curls into a tight ball. Freya recognises and understands the expression on his face, and it pains her to see his hurt. But there is nothing more that she can do for him, except to watch over him while he sleeps.

 

* * *

 

Brok makes a few trips to and from Freya’s yard to carry all of his and Sindri’s gear. He makes a final jump into the forest near one of Sindri’s workplaces to gather the last of his belongings. He walks along a path between the trees, the small bag holding the last of Sindri’s belongings hanging from his belt.

“How’s your brother?”

Brok spins around to look up at the voice. He spots the boy, languishing across a branch of a nearby tree. He’s leaning on one elbow and tossing his knife into the air with his free hand. He catches it out of the air and studies the blade.

“That is, if you found him. I hope you found him – I would hate for all my hard work to go unnoticed.”

“You sick bastard,” Brok growls. “You sick, fucking bastard!”

“Just ‘Loki’ will suffice.”

Brok’s expression slips into one of slight surprise. “So he told you, then?”

“Indeed. Funny – in all the time I’ve known you two, you’ve done nothing but bicker about each other. It’s all, ‘he’s an idiot’ this, ‘his work is terrible’ that…but the second I threatened to torture the information I wanted out of you, he was more than happy to loosen his tongue.” Loki snickers at the expression.

“He what?”

“Protected you,” Loki replies slowly, as though Brok were stupid. He grins and cocks his head. “It was the most scared I’d seen him since he was almost eaten by a dragon.” A small pause. “I wonder if you’d do the same.”

Brok glares up at Loki, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, no, no – don’t give me that look. See, I just have a question for you. But before I ask you – well, I’ve been thinking. What you are probably wondering is, just how can I hope to torture the information out of Sindri when I’ve already cut his tongue out? That’s just the thing. I’m very interested in the pain tolerance levels of dwarves. For a species that would rather hide between the realms than fight, you sure do have a high pain tolerance. Sindri did cry – which I had expected, really. Having your tongue cut out would definitely hurt. The mouth is particularly sensitive. Lots of nerves. No, see, the odd thing was, he didn’t do anything else. I’d expected him to pass out, or throw up, or even just scream. But he just sat there and sobbed. I’m very interested in just how much he can take.”

Brok feels his blood boil and clenches his fists.

“So you see, I’ve been thinking. I don’t need Mimir’s entire head. Just his eye. And it’s come to my attention that he has two. Now, I could find the other eye, and never even have to look for his head. Or, the second eye could remain hidden, and I could find Mimir. And anyone who got in my way – like, say, a pesky dwarf – would, of course, be dealt with. By whatever means necessary.”

“Don’t you lay a finger on him,” Brok threatens. Loki just raises an eyebrow and cracks a smile.

“I won’t have to, if you tell me what you know about Mimir’s other eye.”

Brok glares up at the god for a moment before sighing and folding his arms. “Odin came to me…oh, I can’t remember. Ages ago. Asked me to build him a statue of Thor with a secret compartment in it.”

“Did you?”

“Was it a weapon? Armour? No, I did not. But he went and found someone else to make it. Ended up stickin’ it right out on the lake.”

“The statue of Thor that the World Serpent ate?”

Brok snorts softly. “Would seem so.”

Loki sneers. “You’re sure the eye is in the statue?”

“Never was, but it’s the best bet. If you can get to it, that is.”

“You should hope that I can.”

Brok glares back up and Loki for a moment, then looks away. “You got anything else you wanna say to me?”

“My father. He’s alive, isn’t he?”

There’s a brief silence, then Brok replies, “Yes.”

“Oh, good. After I shot him I realised it would be so much more rewarding to have him see the fruits of our labour. It would be such a disappointment if he didn’t get to see what we are working so hard to achieve. The final act in mother’s name.” His lips curl into a grin. “Do say hello to him for me, won’t you?”

Loki stands, then steps out into open air. Watching him shift his shape is terrifying – the limbs bending in on themselves, the bones shortening, the body changing. It all happens in less than a second, but the image is burned into Brok’s mind. Loki swoops up, flying momentarily above the ground before sweeping up through the trees.

 

* * *

 

Brok returns to Freya’s home more than a little shaken. He leaves the bag of Sindri’s belongings with the rest of their gear and walks straight into the house. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks down at Sindri, who is sleeping relatively peacefully.

Freya approaches and stands beside him. “Is everything alright?”

“I ran into the kid.”

“Atreus?”

They both turn towards Kratos, who is blinking his eyes open. He pushes himself a little more upright in his chair and cracks his neck.

“He’s…no. He’s calling himself Loki, now.”

“Loki.” Kratos looks down. “That’s what his mother wanted to call him.”

Freya bites her thumbnail nervously before shaking it off. “This isn’t good. We need to try and reach through to him.”

Kratos pushes himself upright with a slight groan. “We need to find him.”

“Kratos, no.” Freya walks over to him and lays a hand on his shoulder. “You won’t stand a chance against him, especially not while you’re injured. He is no longer the son you know.”

“I will not give up on him.”

“I’m not asking you to. I just need you to stop and think rationally for a minute. Don’t rush into this. Allow yourself time to heal. Atreus – Loki – will wait for you.”

Kratos clenches his jaw, but leans back after a moment. “I will wait only as long as I must. I have left him alone for too long already.”

Freya nods in understanding and moves to sit down. She looks at the other people in the room and sighs softly. “What an odd bunch we are,” she murmurs. “I never would have expected this.”

 

* * *

 

Retrieving the eye was exceptionally easy. All Loki had to do was wait until Jörmungandr opened his mouth, fly in, and find the statue. Then it was as simple as changing back into a human, slipping the eye into one of the little pouches on his belt, and flying back out. He even takes the time to sit with Jörmungandr and relax before returning to Týr’s temple.

Baldur is waiting for him on the top level of the Travel Room when he flies in through the roof. He drops down in human form and retrieves the eye from his belt.

“Got it.”

“Well done.” Baldur smiles and walks to the doors. He opens it for Loki, who walks over to the shrine panel. He lifts the eye and studies it curiously for a moment before holding it out. Golden-white light begins to shine from the eye, bathing the panel in a glorious light. Hidden details begin to appear under the light.

While Baldur studies the new details, Loki touches his palm to the edge of the frame. The prophetic images come to him again. Loki sees himself holding an unidentifiable object. He sees himself at the edge of one of Yggdrasil’s branches. He sees himself standing before the Travel Room door to Jötunheimr.

Loki steps back, blinking rapidly as the images fade into memory.

“What did you see?”

“This.” He points at the object on the panel – the one he saw himself holding. “We need to make it. And we’re going to need a dwarf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ridiculously late and ridiculously short because I got super distracted writing it but also I just needed a short filler chapter before we move on to other things. Oh well. I still enjoyed writing it, especially the bit where Loki acted like a psychopath because? I really like writing crazy characters (courch Baldur cough Hnoss cough Loki cough)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is protective of everyone else.

Sindri is, understandably, a little disoriented when he wakes up. Brok has fallen asleep in the chair by the hearth, Freya is across the room organising her shelves, and Mimir is asleep on the bedside table. He pushes himself upright and goes to ask what’s happening.

Then he remembers that he can’t.

Sindri sinks back down and crosses his arms over his chest. Of course. Atreus – _Loki_ – cut out his tongue. He looks down at his dented armour, which he somehow managed to fall asleep in. Through the hole torn in the shoulder he can see the scar left by Loki’s arrow. He reaches a hand up and touches his finger to the scar.

When Sindri looks up, he sees Freya watching him sadly. “How are you feeling?” she asks, lifting a bowl of what appears to be liquid light and walking to sit beside him.

Sindri shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. He offers something halfway between a thumbs up and a thumbs down. Freya gives a sympathetic smile.

“I’m sorry I could not do more for you. But…” She dips her fingers into the light and holds her hand up. “May I?”

Sindri looks at the light curiously.

“A protection spell. It will help to prevent the gods from seeing you.”

Sindri nods, and Freya touches her fingers to the back of his neck, drawing the protective rune on. She then stands up and walks over to Brok, rousing him from sleep.

“What – what d’you want?” he grumbles, blinking his eyes open.

“Here,” she says, dipping her fingers into the bowl and drawing the rune onto his neck. “To keep you hidden from the Æsir.”

“Oh,” says Mimir, having been awoken by Brok. “You’ll want to put that back on Kratos. His got rubbed off in Týr’s temple.”

Freya sighs and dips her fingers back into the light. “He should have told me sooner. Here.” She reaches out and draws the rune onto Mimir. “For safety’s sake.” When she pulls her hand back, she turns to Brok. “You know how to cook?”

“I’m the only person in the family who can.”

Sindri huffs playfully and lightly punches Brok’s arm.

“There’s a net in the river out the back. There should be fish already caught – I forgot to draw it up this morning. You two go make a meal for us all. My garden is open to you – you should be able to find almost anything you want there.”

Brok nods and walks to the back door. Sindri stands and follows him out. Freya glances momentarily at Mimir, who flicks his gaze towards the front door. She dips her fingers into the golden light and walks out into the front yard.

Kratos is training, fighting the enchanted vines at the entrance to Freya’s yard. Whenever he hits them they grow back, so he’s been training with it ever since he first agreed to stay at Freya’s home.

Freya walks up behind him as he catches his axe. She waits for him to turn and face her before reaching out and drawing the protective rune onto the back of his neck.

“The rune,” he murmurs, hovering his fingers over it. “I had forgotten.”

“Yes. Mimir had to tell me.” She looks back at the house when she hears Brok having a one-sided argument over how best to garnish fish.

“What…is he doing?” Kratos asks, turning towards the back garden.

“Probably best not to ask.”

Kratos allows his gaze to linger on the house for a moment before turning back to the vines. He raises Leviathan and resumes training with the roots. After a moment of standing idle, Freya draws her sword.

“May I train with you?”

Kratos gives an affirmative grunt and moves over slightly so that Freya will have room to battle the vines. They continue training against the vines until Freya is distracted by a shout from Brok. She almost catches Kratos’ arm with her sword, but he deflects it with his axe.

“Are you aiming to hit me?” he asks, tone humorous.

“Do you want me to?” Freya replies, stepping back and adopting an offensive position.

“I want you to try.”

Freya grins and lunges at Kratos, enjoying the distraction of a friendly dual. She can tell that Kratos isn’t trying as hard as he was before he fought Heimdallr – he’s no longer trying to prove a point to her. And she knows he welcomes the distraction, too.

 

* * *

 

“Have you figured out what it all is?”

“I think,” Loki says, studying the drawing he made in his journal, “that this is a key.” He had sketched down the panel and the newly revealed details, and had spent the night trying to figure out just what everything meant.

“What about this?” Baldur asks, leaning over his shoulder and tapping the object Týr is holding.

“I’m still not sure. But it looks like he’s using it to travel along this path. Where that is…” Loki trails off and looks away.

“Do you know something?”

“In one of my visions…I saw us on a branch of the World Tree. At the edge of a branch.”

Baldur stares down at the journal for a moment before standing. He folds his hands behind his back and looks away. “And how did that go for us?”

“I don’t know. I only saw a flash of it. But there was another, uh…image afterwards, and my premonitions have always come in chronological order before, so I guess we make it out okay. As long as we’re holding this.” He taps the object in Týr’s hand.

“I suggest we find it, then. But as for this” – he points to the design Loki has dubbed a key – “we’ll need to find a dwarf, just like you said.”

Loki snaps his journal shut and tucks it into the pouch on his belt. He stands up and stretches, limbs a little stiff from having spent the night hunched over studying his drawing.

“Brok and Sindri will be our best bet. They’re the only dwarves I’ve seen since we first left home.”

“You think you can find them?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. They’re not hanging around the shop anymore so they must have gone –” Loki pauses, train of thought stopping suddenly.

“Gone…where?”

“They would have gone to –” Again, his thoughts are snatched away from him before he can finish them.

“Are you okay?” Baldur asks, resting his hand on Loki’s shoulder.

“I can’t remember.” Loki stares down at the ground, trying to dig the thought out of his head. “I know where they’ve gone…but I can’t remember. It’s right there, on the tip of my tongue – right at the front of my mind – but the second I try to think of it…it just slips away.”

“That doesn’t sound normal.” Baldur considers it for a moment. “Okay, let’s try something else. Have you been there?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a house?”

“Yes.”

“Whose?”

“I…don’t know.”

“Okay. Whose houses have you ever visited, aside from your own?”

“Only ever Freya’s.”

Baldur snaps his fingers and grins. “That’s our place.”

“They’re at Freya’s,” Loki beams. Then his expression falls. “Baldur, I forgot again.”

“Mother’s using magic to keep us out.” Baldur crosses his arms and frowns. “Do you remember the way to her home?”

Loki thinks about it for a minute before sighing and shutting his eyes. “No. I’m sorry, no.”

Baldur exhales slowly and nods. “Okay. That’s okay.”

“But we need them. They need to make the key for us.”

“They wouldn’t have. Not without being forced to. And even then, there’s no guarantee they would have made it right.”

“Then why –”

“I was hoping we would be able to make the key here in Midgard. But we’ll have to return to Asgard and speak with the dwarves there.”

“There are dwarves in Asgard?”

Baldur looks down at Loki and raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t know?”

“No one told me. I never saw them.”

“Of course, you barely left Valhalla and Válaskjálf. How could you know?” Baldur motions for Loki to follow him and begins walking back to Týr’s Temple. “Odin has a few dwarves in his employment. Mostly they reside within Bilskirnir.”

“Bilskirnir? That means…lightning crackle. So it’s Thor’s?”

“Correct! Well done. Yes, the dwarves live in Thor’s hall. They spend most of their time making weapons and armour for Thor and the other gods. Of course, nothing they ever made has been to the standard of Mjolnir.”

“Is that also why you wanted to find Brok and Sindri? Because they made Mjolnir, and you knew they could make the key?”

“Mm.” Baldur wrinkles his nose and shrugs slightly. “Well, like I said before, we’d probably need to force them to make it, and there’s a chance they wouldn’t do it properly. It’s better to be sure it will be make as well as possible, than risk a slightly higher quality and walk away with it made worse in the end.”

“That makes sense,” Loki says softly.

“Keep it in mind. It’s a valuable lesson.”

“I will.”

They step out onto the bridge and Baldur stops walking. “Show me how fast you can go.”

“Which body?”

Baldur considers it for a moment. “Wolf.”

Loki harnesses his magic, summoning the itch under his skin. He’s gotten much better at controlling the rate at which he shifts. He can change into a falcon the fastest, but a wolf is a close second. It takes less than a second for the itch to spread under every inch of his skin, then he’s leaping forwards on all fours and racing across the bridge.

Baldur beats him to the temple, but Loki expected that – the older god can move at inhumane speeds, after all. He shifts back to human at high speed and takes a few running steps to catch himself.

“You’re getting faster,” Baldur says, nodding to Loki. The boy smiles and straightens.

“Thanks.”

Baldur unhooks his Bifröst crystal from his belt and hands it to Loki. “You take us back this time. Make sure you still know how to do it.”

“I know how!” Loki replies, tone jovial, as he snatches up the crystal. “Come on, let’s go.”

They walk into the temple and Baldur whistles. He looks down at the blood on the floor. “Wow, you really did a number on that dwarf, huh?”

“All I did was cut out his tongue and stab his shoulder with an arrow. He just kept bleeding.” Loki pauses to consider it for a moment. “Actually, I cut his tongue out and he tried to do that whole…walk between realms things to get away, but he didn’t get far. And I couldn’t have him running off, so I stuck him down with an arrow. He got blood everywhere on the way out.”

Baldur smirks faintly and walks across the dried blood, holding the doors open for Loki. The boy walks in and heads straight to the altar, locking the Bifröst crystal into place and turning the bridge to Asgard. As soon as he’s sure Baldur is inside, Loki slams down the outer ring.

When they arrive in Asgard, Loki passes his journal to Baldur and they go their separate ways – Baldur to Bilskirnir, Loki to his room. He takes off his bow and sets it and his quiver down on the table, and drops his knife beside them. Then he drops back onto his bed and curls into the furs. He’s tired and sore from the night spent studying his journal, so he practically passes out.

The sky is dark when Atreus is roused by Fulla. He sits up and blinks the sleep from his eyes. As soon as he recognises the woman sitting on his bed, he throws his arms around her.

“Oh! Well, hello there!” Fulla chuckles softly and ruffles his hair. “How are you?”

“I’m good! We went back to Midgard, and it’s so strange being there! It’s so different to Asgard.”

“I imagine so.” Fulla smiles and loosens her grip on Loki so that he leans back. “How come you’re back?”

“We need some of Odin’s dwarves to make us a key, and the only dwarves we know in Midgard won’t help us.”

“Why not?”

Loki opens his mouth to answer then pauses. He’s not quite sure how Fulla will react to the truth. “They just…aren’t really fond of us, I guess.”

Fulla nods slowly, and something in her eyes sets Loki on edge.

“Well, never mind that. I have a few things to give you before we eat. You’ll need to rest after the meal, and I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to see you tomorrow before you and Baldur leave. So I’ll give you these now.”

“What is it?” Loki asks, turning his body to better face Fulla.

“It’s not all that much, so don’t get your hopes up.” She lifts a small bag and sets it out in front of Loki. She removes from the bag a small pouch, which in turn is filled with leaves. “These don’t look like much, but they can be used to heal just about anything – as long as you know the spell. Should anything happen to you – which I pray not – you will be able to heal yourself.”

“The spell is _heill_ , right?”

“Yes. Make sure to remember it.” Fulla reaches into the bag and draws out a small golden cloak pin. The design of the pin is two snakes, weaving through each other and biting each other’s tails. “Baldur told me about your new name, Loki.”

“My mother chose it, when I was born. She wanted to call me that, but my father chose Atreus. I think Loki suits better.”

“You are very important, Loki. The prophecies of Ragnarök speak your name. And this” – she holds out the cloak pin – “is – or, will be – the symbol you choose for yourself.” Fulla reaches out and undoes the pin in the half cloak Loki is wearing, replacing it with the new one. Loki admires it for a moment before looking back up at Fulla.

“Thank you.”

“I have one more gift for you. This…is already yours.” She pulls a small silver ring out of the bag and slips it onto Loki’s finger. There’s a small, flat circle on the back with little raised bumps around the edge. In the centre of the ring is a golden handprint.

“My mother’s sign,” Loki whispers, brushing his fingers over it. “How did you get this?” Loki twist the ring on his finger and feels the indent of runes carved into the underside of the flat surface. He goes to remove the ring and check the runes when Fulla catches his hand.

“Do not read them,” she murmurs. “Not yet. There will come a time and a place. But only when you are truly lost should you read those runes.”

“I don’t understand,” Loki whispers, slipping the ring back into place.

“Neither do I,” Fulla replies, putting a reassuring hand on Loki’s shoulder. “But it was supposed to reach you. It came to me – I can’t even remember how. Time and fate are fickle and mysterious things. It could have come from anywhere, any time. For any reason.”

Loki looks down at the ring before lowering his hand. “We should go eat soon, right? Don’t want to keep Odin waiting.”

 

When Loki steps back out into Týr’s temple the next morning, nothing seems to have changed. He walks out and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Baldur, why is it still…the same day?”

“What do you mean?” Baldur asks, his attention on his belt. He pulls Loki’s journal out and hands it back to him.

“The sun’s moved…but not much. And it’s the same day. I just know it is. The air – the world – feels the same as yesterday. But we’ve been away for a day.”

Baldur looks slightly disinterested – head turned away, hand on his hip. “Oh, yeah. There’s a time difference between the realms. Thought you knew.” He looks down at the key in his other hand and studies it for a moment. “Come on, let’s go look for that door. I think I saw it down here.”

Baldur walks away, down the stairs to the lower levels of the bridge. Loki stands there for a moment. He looks up at the cloud-covered sun, covering his eyes with his hands just in case.

 _It has been only_ months.

“Loki?”

Loki snaps his attention down to where Baldur is standing at the foot of the stairs. He gives and apologetic wince and runs down the stairs, following after Baldur.

“Did you find the door?”

“Here.” Baldur waves him over to a door in the wall. There’s a very obvious spot for the key. Baldur studies it again for a moment before holding it out and slotting it into place. Handles open out from the door and Baldur grabs them, turning them around. The lock spins and the door clicks open.

“Ready?” he asks, looking down at Loki.

“Let’s go.”

Baldur steps through the doorway and Loki follows after him.

“What…is this?” Baldur asks, looking up at the room above them.

“It’s the Travel Room,” Loki replies, a little awestruck. He walks past Baldur to stare up at the building. “But it’s upside down.”

Baldur looks at the large rune in front of them. “Jötunheimr,” he says, walking up to it. “Stand back.” He cracks his knuckles and bends down, hooking his fingers under the edge of the platform.

“What are you doing?” Loki asks, narrowing his eyes as he tries to figure out Baldur’s plan.

“We flip the temple…” He groans as he lifts the platform, straightening up to lift it higher. “We can bring the Jötunheimr door into the Travel Room.”

The movement of the platform jerks to a stop and Baldur groans. He looks down at the space under them. There are two platforms below, each one with a large chain held in place.

“The chains,” Loki says, stepping up to the edge of the platform. “They’re holding the temple down.”

“How do we get down there?”

Loki looks down at the chains, then back at Baldur. “How long can you hold that platform up?”

“As long as you need. It’s not like it’s hurting.”

“Keep it there. I just need a couple of minutes.”

Loki takes a step back and launches himself out into the open air. He shifts into a falcon and swoops down to the first platform. He takes a few running steps when he changes back, stopping short of the back wall. Loki takes a few deep breaths and turns towards the chain when an inscription in the wall catches his eye.

Loki walks over to the inscription and runs his hands over it gently.

_Leave them in peace_

“What did you find?” Baldur shouts, and Loki steps back.

“Nothing!” he calls back, turning away from the runes. He walks towards the chain and pushes his hands against one side of the open link.

“Feeling strong?”

“I gotta be, right?” Loki chuckles softly and pushes against the link. He managed to inherit some of his father’s strength, and Baldur – who has more than his fair share of inhumane strength – helped him grow stronger over the past two years. Even so, pushing just one half of the link back drains him immensely.

Loki manages to push the other side of the link back enough for the chain to fly off. He leans forwards, putting his hands on his knees, to try and catch his breath. Behind him, realm tears appear and two Travellers emerge. Loki stumbles away from them, hands flying to his bow.

“Just get out of there!” Baldur shouts, and Loki has never been so relieved to follow his orders.

He runs from the approaching Travellers and launches himself off the edge of the platform. Loki swoops around to the second platform and stumbles forwards, bending over and leaning his weight on his knees. He takes a few minutes to catch his breath and allow the burning in his arms to die down.

Loki looks up to see another inscription. He tilts his head slightly, studying the runes as he regulate his breathing.

_until gods grow good._

“You okay, boy?”

“Yeah, ’m fine.” Loki stands up and walks over to the second open link. He repeats the process with the second chain and steps away from the open link. When a swarm of draugr and an ogre are summoned to the platform, Loki steps backwards off the edge.

For a moment he lets himself fall, not even trying to summon the itch. He closes his eyes, focusses on the rush of air around him. He’s strangely…content.

Then Loki’s body snaps upright as the itch fills him. He beats his wings and propels himself towards the opening where Baldur his holding up the platform. Loki flies past the older god and shifts back to a human behind him. He stops moving and looks back the way they came.

“Hey.”

Loki looks over his shoulder at Baldur.

“You doing okay? For a minute there I wasn’t sure if you were gonna come back up.”

“Yeah,” Loki agrees, looking back at the entrance. “Neither was I.”

There’s a small pause, then Baldur says quietly, “Come here.”

Loki turns around and walks over to the platform beside Baldur. The older god nods at the spot where he’s holding on. Loki hesitates, before placing his hands beside Baldur’s.

“Okay – up.”

Together they push the platform up, giving a forceful shove right before letting go to ensure the temple flips rather than just falling back into place. For a moment, the two of them can see the sky.

Then the temple comes spinning back around, landing in place with a tremendous crashing sound.

“We need to get up there,” Baldur says, motioning to the top of the temple.

“Over there.” Loki points to a section of the wall where Baldur can easily climb. He shifts into a falcon again and flies up to the platform above.

When Baldur reaches the top platform they turn and walk together into the temple. In the centre of the room is a patch of glowing white smoke with a skull floating in it. Loki pulls out his knife and Stabs the skull, catching the stone that’s left hovering in the air when the smoke dissipates.

Loki sees himself standing on the edge of a branch of the world tree. He sees himself and Baldur stepping off into open air. He sees a brief flash of a dark, almost empty room.

“I was right,” he says, stepping backwards, even as his vision fades back to normal. “We step off the branches.”

Baldur nods slowly and rests a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “Come on. Back out the way we came.”

Loki nods and places the stone into one of the pouches on his belt. He moves back to the edge of the ledge and jumps down, not bothering to fly. Baldur follows suit, and they walk together to back to the entrance. Baldur holds the door, and Loki steps out onto the bridge.

Loki blinks away the unexpected light, holding his hand up to shield his eyes. Baldur does the same when he steps out. Loki is the first to regain his sight, and when he does, he holds a warning hand up to Baldur. The older god looks down at him, then follows his gaze to match Loki’s. When he tenses, Loki lowers his hand to rest on his knife.

Standing not ten metres away is Kratos and Freya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooooOOOOOOOOooooooo what is UP  
> Did I purposefully end the last chapter on a cliffhanger so you'd all think Loki would track down the Huldras and force/torture them into making the key when I knew fully well that he wouldn't? Yes. Yes I did.  
> Big things are happening guys we're approaching the end (I actually sat down and wrote out a plan for this story that's like the first time I have ever done that in my life are you proud) and if all goes according to plan there should only be three chapters left. Are you guys ready? I'm not I am LOVING this story and I don't want it to end but at the same time I do.  
> How are you guys feeling about everything so far? And what're your thoughts for the upcoming chapters?


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kratos is starting to lose faith.

Kratos doesn’t miss the protective way his son holds out a hand in front of Baldur. Protecting the enemy from his own father. It burns away at him.

“Well,” Loki says, and it is _Loki_ , as he draws his bow. “Sons pitted against their parents. Whoever would have thought?”

“What?” Kratos asks, straightening slowly. He doesn’t miss the twitch of a smile on Loki’s lips, or the expression of fear that flashes across Freya’s face.

“Kratos –”

“She didn’t tell you? How untrusting.” Loki draws an arrow slowly.

“You did not tell me he was your son,” Kratos snarls, drawing his axe. He keeps his attention on Baldur and Loki, but flicks his gaze towards Freya. She has her attention trained on her son.

“This isn’t the time, Kratos,” she replies through grit teeth. “We need to talk some sense into them.”

Kratos gives a low growl but turns his full attention back to Loki and Baldur. In the second he looked away, Loki fitted the arrow and drew the string of his bow. Kratos adjusts his grip on Leviathan and takes a step back.

“We need to get to the realm between realms,” Loki murmurs. “Get me over to them, and I can get the entry key off father’s belt. There’s a gateway inside.”

Baldur gives a barely-there nod and adjusts his position. “Well, mother? Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

“Please, son – don’t do this. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, mother,” Baldur replies, grinning.

He steps forwards and Loki runs, leaping off his back. He flips in mid-air, firing the arrow that he had fitted. Kratos throws his shield up, and by the time he brings it down to check on his son, the boy has snatched the key to the gateway from his belt.

“Baldur, let’s go!” he cries, stepping back from his father.

“Don’t let him get away, brother,” Mimir pipes up from Kratos’ belt.

Kratos looks over to Freya, who is fighting with Baldur. He looks up when Loki calls out and kicks his mother’s legs out from under her. She hits the ground hard and tries to grab at Baldur, but he runs out of her reach. Kratos glances at her for a second before running after Loki and Baldur.

Loki notices his father following them and tosses the key back to Baldur, who catches it and runs ahead to the doorway. He holds the key up and leaves it in place so Loki can get in after him, then steps through the doorway.

Loki stops running and spins around, holding up his hand and calling, “ _St_ _ǫ_ _ð_ _va_!” Kratos is stopped mid-run, his limbs freezing up on him. Loki releases the magic and fits another arrow in the same breath.

“You won’t do it,” Kratos says, voice low. He can move again, but he stays in place.

“Yes, I will.” Loki draws the string a little tighter. “I did before.”

“Then do it. Show me. Prove you can.”

“Brother,” Mimir warns softly, but Kratos holds a hand out to silence him.

“Prove yourself.”

Atreus lets the arrow fly.

Kratos doesn’t flinch as the arrow slices through his ear. Even as he feels blood run down the shell and onto his face he stays still. Loki lowers the bow, breaths heavy.

“She loved you!” he cries, voice somewhere between angry and disappointed. “She loved you, and that meant something. So this is your one save.” He looks back at the door and lowers his bow. “And besides, Baldur thinks it would be better if you were left alive. So you can see everything we do. You can watch all our hard work unfold.”

Kratos stays silent as Loki snatches the key from the door and slips into the gateway. The door lingers for just a moment, and Kratos considers following his son. But there’s no use. He lets the door close and walks away.

“That was risky,” Mimir says after a second. “He could have killed you.”

“I have been shot at before,” Kratos replies. “I know what a man looks like when he is aiming to kill. Loki was not.”

Freya stands outside, arms folded, a couple of bruises already forming on her cheek and arms. Kratos throws a glance at her over his shoulder and turns away, walking along the bridge to the boat.

“You’re bleeding,” Freya says softly, matching his pace.

“Yes.”

“What happened in there?”

Kratos doesn’t answer, just sits in the boat. He waits for Freya to step in before pushing off the boat and paddling them out into the centre of the lake.

“You’re stopping?”

“They’ll be back. We stay here. Get a good vantage point.”

Freya nods and sits silently for a moment before saying softly, “Baldur…he _is_ my son.”

“You lied to me.”

“No. I didn’t tell you he was my son. I did not lie to you. And the fact that he is…well, it should not change anything between us.”

“He tried to kill us. How does it not change anything?”

“Because I do not condone his actions. I did not ask him to act that way.” Freya leans forwards and rests a hand on Kratos’ arm. “You do not agree with what Loki is doing now, do you?”

Kratos looks down at her hand. “No. I do not.”

“We are the same, Kratos.” She leans back after a moment and rests her hands on her knees. “I caused Baldur to be this way. It’s my fault. I just wanted to protect him and instead…I caused him to resent me.”

“You put the spell on him. To stop him from being hurt.”

“Yes. And now your son is following in his footsteps.”

Kratos sighs and looks down at the water. After a moment he says softly, “Back inside, Loki…used magic. And his hands – his lips – had these…marks. Golden, glowing. They faded after he cast the spell, but they were still there. What are they?”

Freya looks down at Mimir and bites her lip. “Do not concern yourself with them.”

“Come on, Freya. Tell him what they are.”

Kratos looks up at her, his eyes hard. “Do not hide things about my son from me.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She takes a breath and lifts Mimir so that he can provide input. “The marks signal that he has cast a damned spell. They are…powerful. Spells so strong and so damned that the backlash has been known to kill.”

Kratos sucks in a breath and closes his eyes. “He could have died?”

“Yes. But he did not.” Freya sighs softly. “Sometimes someone can enhance their abilities to the point where certain spells are not a threat, but every damned spell will leave a mark.”

“Which spell did he cast?”

“We can’t be sure of that, brother. Some of the spells will leave their own, distinct marks, but…the hands and the lips? That could be almost any of them.”

“And they are all…bad?”

“Most,” Freya admits. “Most are…curses. Torture. Death. But there are a couple that are… _good_. I suppose. To bring someone back from death – especially if their soul is in Hel – is a damned spell, and will definitely leave a mark.”

“You are marked, then? From Mimir?”

“No, brother. I’m not alive – not really. Just reanimated. To really bring someone back from death takes a lot more work and drains much more power. Sometimes the act of bringing someone back to life ends with an exchange of lives. More often than not, it ends with two dead.”

“Could that have been the spell he used?” Kratos asks, grasping for hope.

“I’m afraid not, brother. The spell to bring someone back to life is one of the few that leaves a distinct mark – the _Valknut_ over the heart. Loki must have cast another one.”

“They were scars like lightning bolts. Are there many with such marks?”

“None of them are good, Kratos,” Freya whispers.

“Tell me.”

“There are a couple.” She takes a moment to think. “There’s destruction, madness, and death. I think one or two more. Nothing good.”

Kratos looks down at his hands for a moment before looking out over the water. Freya and Mimir share a brief look before Freya turns her gaze away.

“Don’t lose faith, brother,” Mimir says kindly. “Loki didn’t kill you. There is hope yet.”

“Mm.” Kratos looks back at the head from the corner of his eye. “You have a lot of faith.”

“In times like this? We need it.”

 

* * *

 

Loki stands at the edge of Yggdrasil’s branch, staring down into the rolling mists below. Through the top of the mist, he can faintly make out…something. The same something that has been there, right at the edge of his vision, since he and his father first walked the branches of the realm between realm.

“Down there,” Loki says, leaning slightly over the edge.

“You’re sure about this?” Baldur asks, following Loki’s gaze down.

“You want me to check?”

“Can you?”

“I can try.” Loki looks down at the stone in his hand and focusses his magic into his palm. He tightens his grip on it slightly and centres all his intent on a premonition. After a moment of focussing on the stone, Loki is overcome by the prophesy. His vision goes white, and for a moment he feels weightless.

Then the visions hit him. He sees himself and Baldur falling. He sees himself and Baldur landing. And he sees that same dark, almost-empty room.

When Loki’s vision comes back to him, he finds himself horizontal. He’s looking up at Baldur, who is gripping his wrist tightly and staring down at him with a worried expression. Loki’s feet are still planted on the branch, but the rest of him is hanging over the edge.

Loki can only form a single coherent thought: _fall_.

He wraps his hand around Baldur’s wrist and kicks off the branch. It pulls Baldur off balance and sends the two of them plummeting down into the mists. Baldur’s eyes widen and he pulls Loki to him, wrapping his free arm around the boy’s back. He spins in the air so when they finally land – on another branch, no less – he hits it first.

Baldur lays flat on his back, staring up at the open air above them. Loki rolls off his chest and comes to a stop on his own back. He takes a few heaving breaths and closes his eyes.

“What was that?” Baldur asks, a faint snap to his voice. He turns his head to look at Loki.

“I – I don’t know,” Loki replies. Baldur can see his eyes moving about beneath his eyelids. “It was…all I could think of. That premonition took more out of me. Took longer to come back from it. I didn’t mean to – to worry you.”

Baldur looks at Loki. He looks drained. For a moment, Baldur thinks he could fall asleep. Then the boy’s eyes open and he pushes himself up into a sitting position. He takes a moment to regulate his breathing before climbing to his feet.

“Let’s go,” he says, turning away. Baldur sees his eyes light up. “Look!”

He follows Loki’s gaze, to where a large tower stands further along the branch. It takes him a second to realise just what he’s looking at.

“That’s the tower,” Baldur says, eyes wide. “The Jötunheimr tower. This is where he hid it. All this time it’s been here, between the realms. Genius.”

Loki stands in awe for a moment before shaking his head lightly. “Let’s go.”

The two of them begin walking along the branch, Loki uncharacteristically quiet. Baldur looks down at him from the corner of his eye. He’s lifted the stone from the pouch on his belt and is rolling it between his hands, studying it.

“What are you thinking?” Baldur asks, looking back up at the tower.

“I’m thinking…I don’t know. I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t know what to expect. But if things go right…” Loki looks up at Baldur. “If things go right, we can go to Jötunheimr. We’ll have made it. We can finish what we set out to do.”

“Yes.” Baldur stops walking just outside the door of the tower. He looks down at Loki, who looks up at him in turn. They stand there together for a moment, then walk into the tower.

It’s that same dark, almost-empty room.

Loki walks towards the only object in the room – a stone pedestal. There’s a hole in the centre of the pedestal where he puts the stone. As soon as it sinks into the pedestal, the whole tower begins to shake. Loki lurches forwards, practically falling onto the pedestal. Baldur stumbles over to him and grabs his shoulders.

“What’s happening?” he cries, trying to hold both himself and the boy steady.

“I think – I think we’re moving through the realms!” Loki turns to Baldur with a grin. “We’re bringing the tower back to Midgard!”

 

* * *

 

The water of the lake begins to ripple.

Kratos looks down at the moving water. The ripples are emanating from the far side of the lake. Something is beginning to materialise in the empty space where the Jötunheimr tower stood.

“It’s them,” Freya says, leaning towards the materialising tower.

“Hold on.” Kratos begins rowing them across the lake. The closer to the tower they get, the larger the waves become.

“Find a place to dock,” Freya insists, scanning the shoreline. “If we can get up there fast enough we may be able to stop them from reaching the Travel Room.”

Kratos nods and continues rowing them forwards. The waves are massive this close to the tower, to the point where Freya, Kratos and Mimir are almost thrown from the boat due to the force of the collisions.

The bridge begins swinging around towards the tower. The waves start to die down, and Kratos takes the opportunity to row the boat closer. He docks the boat on the flattest piece of ground he can find and hooks Mimir back onto his belt.

“We have to climb,” Freya says, already leaping from the boat. She begins launching herself up the cliff face, digging her fingers into the earth and the cracks in the rocks. Kratos follows her lead, hurrying to scale the incline.

The bridge clicks into place and Mimir calls out, “Brother! Look up!” Kratos snaps his head around and gives a curse when he sees Baldur and Loki sprinting out across the bridge.

“Hurry,” he says, turning back around and continuing to climb. “We may still have a chance to stop them.”

 

* * *

 

Baldur throws open the doors to the Travel Room and Loki rushes in after him. Baldur lets the doors slam shut behind him and runs to the altar. He spins the outer ring around to Jötunheimr and slams the Bifröst crystal down.

“Finally!” Loki cries, leaning against the altar. “We’re finally going to get to Jötunheimr.”

Baldur’s faint smile fades as he sees the beam of white light completely miss the door. His eyebrows furrow and he walks around the altar.

“What’s wrong with it?” Loki asks.

“There’s no crystal to reflect it.”

Loki stares down at the ground, then looks up at the light. He holds his hand up into the beam and winces. It feels like his hand is on fire, but his skin isn’t burning. The pain lasts for only a second, then his body is numbed as he is thrown into another prophecy.

He sees himself, holding Mimir – with both eyes – in front of the Jötunheimr door.

Loki steps back from the light, a dull pain still burning in his hand. He shakes his head to clear the lingering effects of the premonition and looks up at Baldur.

“We need the head,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Dammit. He’ll be with the dwarves, and I can’t – can’t remember.”

Baldur gives a low groan and puts his hands on his hips. “That’s…unfortunate.”

“What do we do?”

“Go back out and hope we can find them.”

Loki nods and reaches into the pouch on his belt. He withdraws Mimir’s eye and holds it out to Baldur. “You should hold onto this.”

Baldur hesitates for a moment before taking the eye. Loki smiles faintly and walks to the door. He pulls it open and the pair walk out, and down the light bridge. They start walking out to the entrance of the temple, when the doors open of their own accord.

Kratos pushes the doors open, stopping when he sees Loki and Baldur inside.

“Kratos?” Freya asks, trying to look over his shoulder and see why they’ve stopped.

“Go,” he says, voice low.

Immediately Freya can sense something is wrong. “I’m not leaving you.”

“I said, go.”

Freya hesitates for a moment before turning and running down the stairs. Kratos steps fully inside and allows the doors to slam closed behind him.

“We were just talking about you,” Loki says, smirking faintly. “You wouldn’t happen to have the head, would you?”

“Would that be me you’re talking about?” Mimir pipes up.

Baldur grins. “Well, look at that! He’s gone and brought the head right to us. Just what we needed.”

Kratos starts walking into the room, hand reaching for Leviathan. Before he can even get close, Loki throws up his hands.

“ _Rót_ ,” he hisses. His hands and lips light up again, and Kratos remembers what Freya and Mimir said – a spell so damned the backlash could kill. He’s so focussed on the glow that he doesn’t instantly noticed the roots growing up and tangling wrapping themselves around his body.

Creating the roots is more strenuous for Loki than simply summoning them up through the ground, but after all the training he’s done over the past two years it’s the type of barely-there difference that he’s come to be able to overlook.

The roots bind Kratos completely. He struggles to break through them, but before he can, Loki lowers his hand. The roots drag Kratos to his knees, awkwardly positioning his arms splayed behind his back so that he can’t escape.

Loki circles Kratos and sweeps Mimir off his belt. He tosses the head to Baldur and draws his knife. Baldur catches the head – who is very flagrantly calling out both men for what he deems their ‘stupid actions’ – and lifts the other eye, fitting it into place.

Loki stops in front of his father and looms over him, leaning forwards on the roots. “What are you thinking?” he whispers, looking down at him.

Kratos stares up at Loki – at his _son_ – and his heart drops. He closes his eyes and lowers his head and says nothing.

“Hm.” Loki snorts softly and brings the knife closer to his father’s throat. “Nothing to say?”

“Loki.”

He looks up when he’s called. Baldur has his arms folded, and he’s holding the now-silent Mimir with one hand. “Let him live, for now. Like we said – let him see just what all our hard work has gone towards.”

Loki turns his attention back to Kratos and tucks his knife away. He steps back and straightens, then walks around his father. He lifts Kratos’ weapons and wraps the chains of the blades around the handle of the axe, then walks over to the wall. Loki draws his arm back and drives Leviathan deep into the wall before walking back to his father.

“If you’re smart,” he says, twisting his hands in front of him so that one of the roots binds Kratos’ hands together while the others fall away, “you’ll behave.”

Kratos says nothing, just looks up at Loki and stands up. He walks past Baldur and stops just before the light bridge. Mimir watches him walk past, expression solemn and mood grim. He, too, says nothing.

Baldur walks over to Loki and smiles down at him. “Almost there,” he whispers, touching a hand to the boy’s shoulder. Loki returns the grin and they walk together towards the Travel Room – first Loki, then Kratos, then Baldur.

Loki steps up to the Travel Room doors. He takes a moment to breathe, then throws the doors open and steps inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you suffering yet?  
> What're your thoughts on everything so far, and on the final two chapters to come?  
> I think I was going to say something else here but i legitimately forgot so oops.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allegiances are tested.

Loki walks to the place where the crystal should be and holds out his hands. Baldur tosses Mimir forwards and he catches him, albeit a little roughly. Loki watches as Kratos crosses the room and stands silently out of Baldur’s way.

“Atreus,” Mimir hisses as soon as he’s caught. “Atreus, listen to me.”

“That’s not my name,” Loki snaps.

“It doesn’t matter what you call yourself, lad, all that matters is what you do – and right now, you’re doing some pretty stupid things.”

“Shut up.”

“What do you think you’re going to achieve here, lad?”

“The right thing.”

“The right thing? Really? Helping the Æsir, trying to kill your da, destroying everything the Jötnar strived to protect?”

“Protect?” Loki scoffs. “They didn’t try to protect anything. They withheld information on Ragnarök from the Æsir – information that could change the course of the future. Then they sealed themselves away so no one could have it. What are they trying to protect?”

Mimir stares up at him for a moment before understanding crosses his face. “So that’s what they said,” he replies, voice soft. “Those are the lies they told.”

“Lies?” Loki raises Mimir to his eye level and glares at him. “How dare you.”

“You know they’re lying,” Mimir says, voice level. “Everything I told you was the truth. Everything Odin told you was a lie. And you know it.”

Loki snarls and lowers the head, looking away.

“Your da wasn’t lying to you,” Mimir says softly after a moment. “It really was only a couple of months here. And he spent all that time trying to find you. Looking for a way to get to you. He did everything he could for you. He found the Bifröst and fought Heimdallr.”

“No,” Loki murmurs, confusion flitting across his face. “Only one person found the Bifröst and it wasn’t him –”

“He was willing to _die_ to reach you, lad. He never gave up on you. Don’t give up on him.”

Loki stares down at Mimir for a moment, his expression changing to one of consideration. Then Baldur slams down on the altar and the beam of light strikes the ground in front of him. Loki’s expression hardens and he shifts his grip on Mimir, then holds him up into the light.

As soon as the beam dies, Loki turns Mimir around so that he’s facing the door. The light leaves Mimir’s eyes and hits the door. The rune on it begins to glow. Baldur walks over to Loki and rests a hand on his shoulder, grinning at the door.

“Well done,” he says, walking towards the doorway. He pauses and turns, only to motion for Kratos to follow him. Loki watches as his father walks past, then dumps Mimir unceremoniously on the floor.

“Can you get in?” Loki asks, walking up to the doorway. Through it he can see stairs leading up, so far that he has to duck down to see the top through the doorway.

“I think bringing the tower back to Midgard may have broken the curse that kept us out. But, there’s only one way to find out.” Baldur slowly reaches out his hand to the doorway. It passes through without hassle, and the man grins. He walks fully through and begins walking purposefully up the stairs.

Loki pushes his father forwards slightly and waits for him to start walking before following after him. He stays behind Kratos, keeping an eye on him. But there’s no real need to – he looks destroyed.

When Loki steps out into the light at the top of the stairs, Baldur is already waiting. He’s looking up at the peaks of the mountain, a faint smirk on his lips. Loki walks up beside him and fixes his gaze on the bridge in front of them.

Another premonition – his hand against a wall, sand and stone crumbling around it, carvings revealed underneath.

Loki opens his eyes and looks up at the peak. From the corner of his eye, he sees his father watching him, his gaze fixed on the fading glow of his marks.

“There’s something inside,” Loki says, starting to walk forwards. He crosses the bridge and walks into the mountain.

“What are these?” Baldur asks, looking up at the statues around them.

“I’m not sure.” Loki clicks his tongue softly and turns full circle, studying the statues around him. “Leaders, perhaps? Or…I don’t know. It’s not important.”

Baldur nods. “Right. I’ll go look for all the secrets they’ve hidden away – you go find what you saw.”

Loki looks around for the place he spotted in his vision and notices a doorway on a higher level. He jogs up the stairs and walks over to it, then places his hand against the stone. It begins to crumble away and Loki steps back as the carvings beneath it are revealed.

“What…what is that?” Kratos asks from the ground, his voice low.

“Can’t you tell?” Loki steps to the carving on the left of the door. He holds a hand up to it and says, “It’s mother.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know. It’s what you hid from me. Mother was a Jötunn.” He turns to face his father. “I am a Jötunn.”

Kratos looks up at him, shocked. “I didn’t know, Loki. I didn’t hide it.”

Loki stares down at him for a moment, his expression slipping from straight-faced to open-mouthed. He looks after Baldur’s retreating form and closes his eyes. After a moment he turns around and walks out the door.

A few metres before him is a small incline. Carved into the rock is the same golden marking that has been on all the surfaces Loki and his father have climbed. And in the middle of the symbol is a golden handprint.

Loki holds up his hand, moving his gaze between the handprint on the rock and the one on his ring. He lets his hand fall and steps forwards, climbing up the incline and pulling himself up onto a long rocky stretch. Loki begins walking along the path, turning his head to look out to the sides.

There are bodies out in the sand.

Massive bodies, clawing out at the mountains and reaching up to the sky. Some lying on their stomachs, others on their backs. There are screaming faces, and crying faces, and solemn, hopeless faces. Bodies cradling each other, and bodies lying alone.

Loki’s eyes widen and he walks slowly towards the edge of the path. He steps up onto the little wall and looks down, eyes passing over the corpses. His mind can’t comprehend just what he’s seeing.

“Who are you?” Loki whispers, crouching down and looking over the bodies. They’re littered across the ground, as far as he can see. “What happened to you?”

Baldur’s cursing and shouting rings out from inside the mountain and Loki turns around. He throws a glance back out over the bodies before walking back inside.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, jogging down the stairs.

“I can’t find anything!” the god shouts, storming back into the room. “All their knowledge – all their secrets – it’s not here!”

“It must be here somewhere,” Loki assures, stepping up to him. “We can always bring the others back and look around more.”

“You’re right,” Baldur says, calming down. “We’ll bring the others back. We’ll find their knowledge – tear the whole mountain apart if we have to.”

Loki nods and goes to follow him out of the mountain when something on the wall catches his attention. He steps back and looks up at the panel, and the words carved into it. It’s a passage of text, written by the Jötnar.

_And so we were mocked, and tricked, and used, and then slaughtered._

Loki takes a step back, his eyes widening a touch. He keeps reading, eyes flicking between the lines of text as his heart begins to beat faster.

_The wrath of Thor and his terrible hammer have thinned our number in Midgard to the brink of ruin._

He staggers back further, and his hand lands on a statue. His vision goes white and his chest tightens – there’s not enough air reaching his lungs but he can’t think of that because already a vision is overcoming him.

It’s a proper vision this time, not just still images. He sees beings scrambling away from…something. They’re afraid – terrified. Some are falling. Some are dead. Some stand massive against the sky, while others are the size of a mortal man. Some of the taller ones lift the smaller ones, trying to hurry them along to safety. One of the massive beings topples, and the shorter ones cradled in his hands hit the ground, motionless. Lightning strikes the beings down as they run. They have no hope.

He falls to his knees, gasping for air. His head is bowed, arms shaking. His throat and lungs burn as he takes in oxygen. When he has enough air that he doesn’t feel like he’s about to pass out, he sits back on his haunches. He raises his still-glowing hands and looks down at them.

“They were survivors,” Atreus whispers.

“Loki!” Baldur calls as he walks back into the room. He runs to the boy’s side and drops down beside him. “Are you alright?”

 _He was wrong_.

“I’m fine,” Atreus replies, mouth suddenly dry. “Let’s – let’s get out of here.”

Baldur helps him to his feet and they walk back out to the bridge. Kratos is waiting for them, and when he sees his son, something in his expression shifts. Atreus can’t read his expression, but it’s something more than it was on the way in.

They all walk back down the stairs, Atreus lingering at the back of the group. When he walks back in, Baldur is ready to start the shift back to Midgard. The room begins to rotate as he pushes the altar down. Atreus sweeps Mimir off the ground and walks over to the altar, setting him down on the edge.

“Loki,” Mimir murmurs, voice very small. When Atreus looks down at him, his expression shifts, too. “It’s…nothing.”

Atreus walks around the altar to stand behind Baldur. The god rests a hand on his shoulder and looks down at him. “Don’t worry,” he says, voice quiet. “We’ll find what we’re looking for soon.”

“Yes,” he replies, turning his gaze away. “We will.”

The lights around them change as the room shifts back to Midgard. Baldur steps away from the altar and walks over to Kratos. He grabs his chin roughly, forcing the man to look at him.

“What are we going to do with you?” he asks, cocking his head. “I can think of a few things.”

Atreus exhales slowly before walking to the door. “Whatever you’re going to do to him, take it outside. We don’t want blood in the Travel Room, right?”

Baldur looks at the boy out of the corner of his eye before stepping back. “A fair point.” He walks around behind Kratos and shoves him roughly forwards. “Go on. We’ll out what to do with you outside.”

Kratos grunts softly and walks out onto the light bridge, and down into the main room of the temple. Atreus and Baldur follow, the latter practically leaping around Kratos when he reaches him.

“What do you think, Loki?” he purrs, looking the man up and down. “Should we add his blood to the dwarf’s?”

Atreus doesn’t know what to say. Luckily, he doesn’t have to say anything – before he can react, the air around them begins to thicken. Atreus feels like he’s being unwound, his whole body coming apart. Then everything goes back to normal, except they’re no longer in Týr’s temple. They’re standing in snow.

“You need to stop!”

The three of them look up, to see Freya standing above them. She looks tired, as though transporting them all from the travel room was a great exertion. She leaps down from the rock she stands on and draws her sword. “This has gone on long enough.”

“Mother!” Baldur drawls, stepping away from Kratos. “Fancy seeing you here. I was hoping I’d run into you again – we have a fight to finish, now that you can fight again.”

“I will not fight you, son. Please, just listen to me.”

“You won’t – you won’t fight?” Baldur scoffs, turning away. “You won’t fight. Well, where’s the fun in that?”

“Please, Baldur –”

“But you know what?” His eyes light up and he turns back around to face her. “If you won’t fight me because I’m your son, I wonder if you’ll fight someone else. Oh, Loki?”

Atreus looks up, then steps forwards. At the same time, Freya steps backwards.

“Deal with mother. Feel free to kill her. I would have loved to do it myself, but I’m in the mood for a challenge.” He turns around and looks at Kratos. “Why don’t you let him go?”

Without breaking eye contact with Freya, Atreus raises his hand and flicks it, releasing the magic binding Kratos. The root around his hands falls away. He reaches back to draw his knife and takes a step forwards.

“Loki, child, please –” Freya begins, stepping back slowly. He doesn’t give her a chance to finish, just lunged towards her. Freya scrambles backwards and turns to run, dropping her sword along the way. Atreus gives chase, to the delight of Baldur.

Freya scrambles up a small rock face and Atreus leaps after her, hauling himself up onto the top. Freya is running backwards, keeping her attention on Atreus and throwing out harmless spells in an attempt to keep him away. Atreus dodges every one she throws at him.

“You don’t need to do this!” Freya cries, just as Atreus whispers the same spell to summon the roots that he used on his father. He tightens his fist, which in turn tightens the roots. Freya struggles to pull away from them, but they hold her fast. “Loki, _please_.”

He tightens his grip even further and the roots wrap themselves around Freya’s throat. She starts gasping, trying to suck in air, but the hold is too tight. A few seconds later, her eyes flicker closed and she stops moving. Atreus opens his hand, allowing her unconscious body to drop into the snow.

 

Kratos stands still, head bowed and hands hanging open at his sides. He closes his eyes and exhales shakily.

“Are you hoping for a miracle?” Baldur asks, leaning close to him. “Because you won’t get one.”

Kratos opens his eyes and looks at the god in front of him. “I don’t have a lot of hope left. Not after what you did.”

Baldur smiles, and it’s a cold, emotionless smile. “I didn’t do anything to him. He did it all himself. He listened to what we had to say. He turned his back on you. He chose to become one of us. It was all his choice.”

“You took him from me,” Kratos replies, straightening up. “You took my son. You stole him away. You trapped him in your realm and you manipulated him into being just like you.”

“Well,” Baldur says, holding out his hands and chuckling. “I can’t argue with that.” His smile falls and he draws his arm back, aiming to punch.

An arrow sinks deep into Baldur’s throat.

Baldur lowers his arm and moves his hands to his neck, feeling the points where the arrow enters and exits. He turns his head in the direction the arrow came from and sees Atreus. The boy is still half crouching, but when he’s noticed he straightens and lowers his bow.

“What are you doing?” Baldur growls.

“I won’t let you do this.”

“Oh.” Baldur sighs and shakes his head. He rips the arrow out of his throat and throws it to the ground, turning his body fully to face Atreus. “This is very disappointing. You’re one of us. Don’t throw that all away now.”

Atreus doesn’t reply, just flicks his gaze over to his stunned father.

“I don’t want to kill you, Loki. But if you’re going to do this – going to leave me no choice – then I may as well make the most of it.”

“I don’t want to fight you, Baldur,” Atreus calls. “You don’t have to do this.”

Baldur shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, Loki.”

“That,” Atreus says, lifting his head, “isn’t my name.”

Baldur surges forwards before Atreus can even begin to consider casting a spell. He’s inhumanely fast, and of course Atreus already knew that – but, naturally, it still takes him by surprise when Baldur’s fists connects with his chest.

Kratos can only watch as his son goes flying. He slams into a rock wall – _hard_ – and drops, falling limp to the ground. For a moment, he’s frozen, unable to react. Then – for the first time since he left Greece – Kratos allows his anger to consume him.

He charges forwards with a roar, flames bursting out across his skin. Kratos slams into Baldur and they both go rolling, down a snow-covered incline and to a flat patch of snow and dirt. When they come to a stop, Kratos is hovering over Baldur. He draws a fist back to punch, but stops. Baldur isn’t looking at him – he’s looking at something sticking out of the back of his hand.

The tattoos on Baldur begin to glow bright blue, and the god grins. “I…can feel,” he whispers, and Kratos’ eyes go wide. “I can _feel_!”

Kratos takes the moment of distraction to deliver a punch right to Baldur’s nose. He hears a cracking sound, but rather than being angry, Baldur just _laughs_. He flicks the green, glowing _thing_ from his hand then drives his fist into Kratos’ stomach.

He flies up – not as far as he did the very first time Baldur punched him, but still a fair way – and hits the ground a few metres away. When he stands, he holds his hand out and trains his eyes on Baldur, who pushes himself to his feet.

“What’re you doing?” Baldur asks, cocking his head. “Why aren’t you fighting back?”

“I am,” Kratos replies, his eyes hard and his voice cold. He looks down at his open hand. Then Leviathan flies into it, the Blade of Chaos still wrapped around its handle.

Kratos unwraps the chains and fits the blades to his back, then lunges at Baldur with Leviathan. He manages to catch the god off guard and gets a decent swing in, the blade of the axe cutting deep into his side. Baldur gives a manic laugh.

“Yes!” he roars, taking a step back as Kratos pulls Leviathan away. “I can feel it! Let me feel more!”

Kratos waits for him to step away then hurls his axe at Baldur. The man cackles as it spins against his side, cutting him repeatedly. As soon as the axe is withdrawn he surges forwards and punches Kratos in the stomach. While he reels backwards, Baldur descends on him with a volley of punches.

“Come on! Make me feel more!” he shouts, stepping back.

Kratos wipes a fine trail of blood from his face and fits Leviathan on his back, then draws his blades. He runs at Baldur, slashing out with the blades repeatedly – left, right, left – before spinning around. The blades cut deep into Baldur every time they spin past, and every time he’s cut into Baldur gives a loud, elated cry.

“Yes!” he roars, grabbing a hold of the blades the second Kratos stops spinning. He grips them tightly enough that they cut into his flesh. “Yes, yes – more! More feeling!”

Baldur yanks hard on the blades, pulling Kratos closer to him. He drops one of the blades in time to swing his fist up, into Kratos’ nose. There’s a loud crack, and blood begins to flow. Baldur shoves Kratos roughly, and he stumbles backwards.

“What? You just going to give up?” Baldur mocks, tossing the blades aside. He runs at Kratos, who manages to pull Leviathan back out in time to keep him away.

“No,” he growls, kicking Baldur away before driving Leviathan down into his shoulder. “Not a chance.”

Baldur wrenches the axe from his shoulder and tries to pull it from Kratos’ grip. For a moment the two men grapple with the weapon. Then Baldur kicks Kratos with enough force to send him flying back into a lump of rock.

“Well,” Baldur says, walking towards Kratos. He looms over the man, whose body is bent a little awkwardly due to the fall. “I have to thank you. You did what even the Allfather couldn’t. Of course, I’m still going to kill you.” He looks down at the dazed man for a moment before smirking. “But as thanks, I’ll show you a shred of mercy.”

He lifts his foot and slowly presses it down on Kratos’ windpipe. He’s too stunned to even try and fight back. Baldur pushes down a little harder, and waits for Kratos to pass out before moving his foot away. He twirls the axe, then raises it.

Baldur doesn’t recognise the fly. How could he – Atreus has never shifted into one before. But it’s that not knowing – that inability to know – that dooms Baldur.

One second he’s readying himself to bring the axe down. The next, Atreus is kneeling in front of him, knife buried hilt-deep in his stomach. Baldur gasps, shocked and in pain. He lowers the axe and his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Atreus whispers, and his cheeks are stained with tears.

“Atreus –”

“I don’t want to,” the boy sobs, voice so quiet Baldur can barely make it out. “I’m so sorry, I don’t want to.”

Baldur opens his mouth, but no words come out.

Atreus closes his eyes and whispers, “ _Týna_.”

The magic begins to bleed out into Baldur, and he screams. He hasn’t screamed in a long time – so long he’s almost forgotten what it feels like. But he screams now. The damned spell spreads through him, and scars like lightning spread out from around the knife. It’s a blinding pain – burning away at every inch of him and bringing him to ruin.

So this is how Atreus felt the first time he cast the spell. And this is how he’s feeling now – except so much worse, because he’s feeling Baldur’s pain as well as his own. And it’s worse than the first time – so, so much worse because he’s not feeling the pain of a draugr, but the pain of a god. A whole, fully sentient being with conscious thoughts and true feelings.

Baldur screams again, and it’s a pained, pitiful wail – the hopeless howl of a dying man. He can make out, through his own cries, Atreus’ sobbing.

When Baldur falls, Atreus lurches up to catch him. He drops his knife, and Leviathan falls to the ground beside them. Atreus wraps his arms around the man, sinking back to his knees and pulling his body against his chest. His hands and lips are glowing, and he raises one to look at the marks on his palm – identical to the ones he’s just burned into Baldur’s body. Atreus tightens his grip on the man’s body and screws his eyes shut as sobs rack him.

Atreus sits in the snow, clinging tightly to Baldur’s body, for a few minutes before he slowly loosens his grip and lays him down. Atreus reaches out to grab his knife and tucks it onto his belt before crawling over to his father. He checks first for a heartbeat, then lays his hands gently on his father’s chest.

“ _Heill_ ,” Atreus whispers, allowing his magic to flow into Kratos. He looks down at him for a moment, focussing all his intent into the action. The second Kratos begins to stir, Atreus launches himself backwards. He scrambles to his feet and looks down at his father before turning to run.

The itch runs deep beneath Atreus’ skin, but before he has a chance to call on it he is stopped by a golden glow. The magic dissipates to reveal a furious Freya.

“You killed my son!” she roars, hands glowing with the most powerful spell her curse will allow her.

“I’m sorry!” Atreus replies, fresh tears springing up. “I didn’t want to. But he was going to hurt my father. I couldn’t let him – you of all people should know how that feels. If it were only me, after everything I’ve done…” He looks down at the ground and lets out an audible sob. “But I couldn’t let him kill my _dad_!”

Atreus can see Freya move towards him out of the corner of his eye. He turns his head slightly away and screws his eyes shut, waiting for the painful blow.

But it never comes.

Atreus opens his eyes and finds himself alone. He stumbles back, looking around as he does. Freya is nowhere to be seen. Atreus takes the opportunity to run, and this time, he allows the itch to spread and consume him. He takes no notice of what it does to him, simply allowing it to run wild through his blood – sometimes he has two legs, sometimes four, sometimes none. However many he has doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting away.

And so he runs, heedlessly, as around him, snow begins to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you look closely you can pinpoint the exact moment Atreus decides to abandon the Aesir  
> And did I purposefully put art in just to be even more sadistic than normal? Of course.  
> The background to the drawing isn't mine, but the art of Atreus and Baldur is.  
> I wanted to draw more of the scenes from the story but I didn't get a chance to. I may go back and draw some, and maybe make another work that's just different art. Maybe not, I dunno.  
> What are your thoughts on this chapter?  
> And what have some of your favourite scenes been from the whole story?


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes to a close.

Kratos feels a burst of energy in his chest, sparking up at two distinct places and spreading outwards through him. He gives a groan, eyelids fluttering as he struggles to swim to consciousness. The two points of contact suddenly pull away, leaving the energy unfocussed and uncontained within him.

It was healing him, and still it is – but with no focus points the magic runs rampant, and his body aches with the unbridled power. The threads of magic try to knit themselves together within him, but with nothing to give them order they twist about chaotically.

The magic unites enough that Kratos can open his eyes. It’s only for a second or two, but in that moment he sees Baldur. The god lies dead at his feet, his body laid carefully in the snow. There’s a stab wound in his stomach, and he’s covered in blood but is no longer bleeding. Leviathan lays beside him. There’s a shape in the snow by his legs as though a weight was sitting there, and footsteps lead away through the snow. At the edge of his vision, Kratos can make out a figure, moving closer.

The threads pull apart and pain spikes through every fibre of Kratos’ being, rendering him unconscious again.

 

* * *

 

Atreus steps out of the realm between realms and walks around the base of the mountain. He’s suddenly acutely aware of just how rough he must look – he’s bruised, and tired, and to top it all off his half cloak and tunic are soaked with Baldur’s blood. But there’s something he needs to do, and he doesn’t know if he’ll have a chance to do it again.

Sindri’s shop is empty – everything of value seems to have been stripped away from it. But the dwarf is standing beneath the canvas anyway, working to move and place unidentifiable objects. His back turns momentarily to Atreus, and the boy takes the opportunity to move closer.

When Sindri turns around, he gives a muted cry and stumbles back. His hands scramble to find anything remotely similar to a weapon.

“It’s okay,” Atreus says, taking a step backwards and holding up his empty hands. “I’m…I’m me again. I’m not here to hurt you. I just – I want to help.”

Sindri slowly relaxes and walks up to the counter. He leans forwards on his hands, studying Atreus intently. The boy steps forwards and removes from the pouch on his belt a single leaf. He holds it out to Sindri.

“Put this is your mouth.”

Sindri regards him curiously and takes the leaf, slipping it into his mouth.

“I need to –” Atreus raises his hand. “I have to – may I?” When Sindri nods, he reaches out and touches two fingers as lightly as he can to the corner of the dwarf’s mouth. Then he whispers, “ _Heill_.”

Atreus feels the magic buzz beneath his fingertips – nowhere near as much as he poured into his father. It’s over almost as soon as it begins, and when Atreus lowers his hand, he sees Sindri moving his jaw experimentally.

“Thank you…Atreus,” Sindri murmurs, his voice a little rough from a few days of disuse.

“Don’t thank me,” Atreus replies, chest tightening. “I don’t deserve that.”

They’re silent for a moment, then Atreus lifts the key to the realm between realms from his belt and holds it out. “Give this back to father. He needs it more than I will.”

“He’s okay?”

Atreus looks down at his hands. “He will be.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Kratos comes to again, there’s a woman standing in front of him. For just a second, he thinks she’s Faye. But no – she’s too short, her hair is too long, her eyes don’t hold enough pain. He tries to reach for Leviathan, and there’s most likely fear on his face because she crouches down and puts a warm hand on his arm.

“You don’t need to fear. I’m not here to harm you.”

Kratos sighs softly, too tired and in pain to do anything but drop back against the rock.

“My name is Fulla, and I’m a friend of Atreus.”

 _Atreus_ , he thinks. She called him Atreus. It’s strangely reassuring.

“We felt the balance shift in Asgard, and I knew it was time to find you. I have something to give you.” Fulla reaches forwards and places a folded piece of fabric by his side. “Atreus left this in Asgard. I think you should have it – it’s important to him.”

Kratos looks down at the fabric and gives a low, pained groan. Fulla presses a gentle hand to his cheek.

“I am sorry – I can do nothing for you. Your son’s magic is different to my own. It will heal you, but without him here to regulate it, it will take time. All I can do is watch over you and keep you safe until the process is complete.”

He has no reason to trust her, but as she takes a seat on a rock beside him, Kratos cannot help but feel safer with Fulla watching over him.

 

* * *

 

Atreus sits on Jörmungandr’s head, kicking his feet idly as he looks out over the Lake of Nine. He flicks his gaze down to the Serpent beneath him and rubs his scales gently.

“I screwed everything up for everyone, didn’t I?” He isn’t sure if Jörmungandr can hear him, or even understand him. But it’s a comfort to speak his thoughts aloud. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I was so wrong.”

Jörmungandr gives a soft little groan and shifts his head slightly.

“I think you’re the only one I didn’t mess things up with. But then again, I did fly down your throat without your consent to get an eye out of your stomach.”

Atreus draws his legs up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. He rests his chin on his knees and closes his eyes.

_But only when you are truly lost should you read those runes._

Atreus opens his eyes a crack and looks down at his ring. His mother’s symbol is so colourful against the bleak landscape around him. He reaches out and pulls it off, turning it around to look at the runes engraved on the inside.

He reads the runes, then reads them again, and again. Ingrains them into his memory. Then he slides the ring back on and stands up.

Jörmungandr gives a curious groan and shifts his head slightly. Atreus offers him a soft smile, then leaps out into open air.

 

* * *

 

Kratos opens his eyes to find that he is no longer in pain. He shifts, pushing himself up onto his elbows and looking around. Fulla has gone, but her footprints are fresh and at the rate the snow is falling, she must have left only moments ago.

The sun has moved quite a way across the sky – enough time has passed for Atreus to be long gone, but somehow Kratos knows that his son is still findable. All he has to do is figure out just where the boy has gone.

He searches everywhere – takes the path he and Baldur fell down to get back to the place they all were transported to. Atreus’ bow and quiver lie on the ground where he fell. Kratos lifts them carefully and studies them – the quiver strap has completely broken and the bow has snapped in half.

He checks the mountain first. All he finds is Sindri – tongue now healed. The dwarf can tell him nothing about just where his son has gone, but he agrees to fix the quiver strap and repair the bow.

Atreus isn’t in Týr’s temple, either. Kratos doesn’t bother to check the Travel Room – he just knows his son isn’t there.

And he’s not at Freya’s house. Kratos doesn’t even need to step into her yard to tell Atreus has not gone there. Baldur’s body was gone when he woke – he has no doubt she took him away. And considering the fact that he did not kill the god, and there’s no way Freya would have done it, the only logical conclusion is that Atreus killed him. Kratos doubts Freya will be rather warm towards his son.

After searching everywhere he can think of, there becomes only a single apparent place Atreus could have gone. It should have been the first place Kratos thought of, really – but somehow he knows that had he returned home earlier, he would have found the house empty.

Kratos’ suspicions are proven correct when he arrives back at his house. The footprints in the snow outside are fresh, covered only with a faint layer of snow. Atreus hasn’t been back for very long.

There’s a trail of clothes leading from the doorway to the beds. A half cloak, a tunic, leather boots, and a pair of thick cotton pants. Atreus is sitting on his bed, wearing only an under-tunic. He’s looking down at something in his hands.

Kratos’ first thought isn’t that his son’s Jötnar blood will shield him from the cold – because that little fact still hasn’t completely stuck in his mind – but that his son is _here_ , is _safe_ , is alive and well and _breathing_.

All of Atreus’ clothes were put away before they left, and of course it was the boy who did it. Kratos doesn’t know where any of them ended up, so he bends down and grabs the half cloak off the floor. It’s soaked in blood but it’s the only thing he can see.

Kratos crosses the room and tries to drape the cloak around his son, but the boy pushes his hands away.

“No,” he whispers, eyes moving to rest on the cloak pin. “Never again.”

Kratos drops the cloak and reaches behind Atreus, drawing the furs on the bed up around his son. The boy holds on to them tightly in front of his chest, but he doesn’t seem to be fully aware of what he’s doing – it seemed like more of an instinctual reaction to grab the furs than a conscious act to keep himself warm.

Atreus says nothing, just keeps his eyes fixed on the object in his hands. Kratos looks down at it, and after a moment reaches out to take it. Atreus allows him to pick it up without a fight.

It’s a ring. It’s a ring, with Faye’s symbol on it. Kratos flips it over and sees runes engraved on the inside. He knows very little of this country’s language, and can read less than he can speak, but he knows what this combination of runes means – it’s the one word Faye was insistent he learn.

_Home_

Kratos takes his son’s hand and slips the ring back onto his finger. Atreus’ hand curls up when it’s let go. He looks so small, hunched over and head bowed. Kratos reaches up and lifts his son’s chin, meeting his gaze.

“Talk to me,” he says, voice gentle.

“I’m sorry,’ Atreus replies, in a rough whisper. “You were…you were right. All along. I was…so scared. So alone. I waited for so long. For months, I didn’t even show a shred of doubt. But then…then I started doubting. Started questioning just why you weren’t there yet – started believing Baldur’s lies. I was so quick to give up on you and I hate myself for it.”

“Listen to me.” Kratos rests a hand gently on Atreus’ shoulder. “You…made mistakes. You are not the only one.”

“But my mistakes hurt the people I care about. I was stupid and naïve. I should have just listened to you.” He looks down at the cloak pin – at the two snakes entwined around each other. “I don’t ever want to be Loki again. I can never forgive myself for what I’ve done. I can’t ask anyone else to, either.”

Kratos looks up at his son for a moment before lifting his hand to cup his cheek. His chest tightens when he sees Atreus flinch, as though he were expecting violence. “Your mother has forgiven you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The carvings on those walls – they showed us. You. The things you’ve done, and the things you will do. Your mother foresaw every move you would make. She knew you would go down that dark path and she chose to bring you into the world regardless. She knew that you would come back to us. She saw every choice you made, every person you hurt, every movement you acted out, and she forgave you. Before you’d even considered any of it, she had forgiven you.” Kratos lifts his other hand to cup Atreus’ cheek, too, and murmurs, “And I forgive you.”

Atreus doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he closes his eyes and looks down. When he looks back up he’s crying. He leans forwards and wraps his arms slowly around his father. He buries his face in the crook of Kratos’ neck and sobs softly against him.

He’s just a child. Lost, and confused, and terrified. He’s so young, Kratos thinks. Too young to have had to face this. Too young.

Kratos holds his son closer, wrapping his arms around him. He cups one hand against the back of his son’s head and rests the other between his shoulder blades, trying to cover as much of him as possible – to keep him close and warm and _safe_.

He will never let something like this happen to his son again, Kratos promises. Never again.

  

They spend the night at home, and for the first time in years Atreus sleeps in his father’s bed. When we wakes up curled against Kratos’ chest, one of the man’s arms draped haphazardly over him, he almost sobs again – he half expected their reunion to have just been a dream.

In the early morning light, the pair dig out clothes from where they’ve been stored and begin the journey to Týr’s temple. Atreus is silent the whole way, and when the pair walk in to the Travel Room, it’s Mimir who breaks the silence.

“I was wondering when you two would be back,” he says, from the altar where Atreus left him. The boy winces, realising he left the head there all night.

“Sorry,” Atreus murmurs, his voice so quiet that Mimir almost cannot hear him.

“No need to apologise, lad. I’m just glad you’re back to your old self.”

Atreus gives a faint, barely-there smile and walks around to pick the head up. He walks out to stand in front of the Jötunheimr door and holds Mimir up to the light as soon as his father locks in his Bifröst crystal.

When the door opens, Mimir quietly tells Atreus to leave him behind so that he and his father can have a moment alone. After all they’ve been through, they need it.

When they step out into the light of the mountain, Kratos looks his son in the eye and hands him the bag of Faye’s ashes.

And then he kneels in front of Atreus, and ties around his waist the waist cloth Fulla gave back to him. The waist cloth he once gave to his son.

Kratos keeps an arm around his son all the way to the top of the mountain. Atreus stays close, pressed against his father’s side as though afraid that he will vanish at any moment. With one hand he clutches his mother’s ashes tightly to his chest. Even when they reach the small incline where his Faye’s mark is etched into the stone, Atreus accepts the helping hand from his father rather than climb on his own.

They walk out onto the ledge. Staring out over the bodies – at the destruction wrought by the gods. The destruction Atreus almost aided in spreading. He feels tears prick at his eyes again.

Then Kratos’ hand is on his shoulder – warm and familiar and safe. Atreus steps closer to his father. He holds out the ashes.

“Father?”

“No.” Kratos looks down at him, and there’s the faintest trace of a smile. “We do it together, son.”

Atreus sucks in a shaky breath and looks down at the ashes. He carefully opens the top and reaches in to take a handful. When he withdraws his hand, Kratos mimics the action. Atreus reaches out his hand and opens it, allowing his mother’s ashes to drift away – back to her people. Back to her home.

And he feels, bubbling up to him, from some ancient, secret part of himself, the hundreds – _thousands_ – of voices of his people.

And they are singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the story comes to a close.  
> This story was so much fun to write - I enjoyed it so much, and I hope you guys did too.  
> This final chapter is shorter than the others, but it felt like a good way to end things.  
> I'll hopefully be back with more God of War fics soon, but in the meantime, thank you for joining me on this adventure.


End file.
